The warm moon shone in those days, just as now, she dreamed; the little clouds floated across the same sky; the cypresses looked in at the same windows. The torches gleamed like this one, only there were many of them, and they moved not through the tiers and balconies, but in the arena, rising and falling, in the hands of Romans clad in togas and tunics. This afternoon the games beloved of Romans had taken place, and many Christians had been thrown to the wild beasts. The festive crowd of onlookers had left the circus, chattering gaily and animatedly, and hurried homeward to merry suppers. The wild beasts, having eaten sumptuously, are now sleeping in their cages. The night has fallen peacefully on Rome, and with the darkness there has appeared in the arena a silent assemblage; the friends and relations of to-day’s martyred Christians. For large sums of money they have bought, from the keepers of the Colosseum, the right to take away the bodies of the victims. Stifling their sobs, silently, like shadows of mourning, they pass from one corpse to another, bending down, searching by the light of their torches for the remains of some dear one. Having found what they sought, they fall, with a dull cry, to the ground, and gaze with horror at the stiffened features. There, beside a torn white tunic, some long black tresses, and two soft, girlish hands, sits an old woman, richly but tastelessly dressed, and with blunt, plebeian features. She is swaying hopelessly from side to side, and, in a pitiful, wailing voice, is telling her sorrow to an old man, who listens sympathetically.