After a few minutes Coryna returned, restrained and quiet, but with the trace of a tear that had stolen down her fair face. "My brother," said she with hesitation, "earnestly desired that thou shouldst come and stay with me for a time. Is this possible? May I hope it is." Pathema was taken by surprise. Her home and beloved parents and the poor of Patara had been much in her heart. Her father had been more than once in Rome, trying to obtain her liberty, and he had provided long ago the temporary abode she had been carried to by Christian friends. This now swept across her vision. But it was quickly followed by another picture--the self-sacrificing act of the nobleman in whose mansion she was now a guest. And he was dying--so the physicians feared. Duty--gratitude--consolation--everything demanded her presence. Her answer was unhesitating and prompt-- "I will stay with thee." And Coryna bent down and kissed her, with a feeling that was warmly returned. Tharsos was beyond the stage of knowing anyone. In spite of the best medical skill, fever had quickly set in, and the battle began in earnest between life and death. Now was the opportunity for a woman's soldiership--soldiership of the highest kind--where woman only can excel. The weapons are experience, presence of mind, patience, endurance and compassion. With all these Pathema was perfectly armed, her value was speedily recognised, and she became an unassuming soldier in the strife. There were days and nights of anxious care and watching, the utmost was performed, and nothing left undone. Yet Tharsos seemed to be marching straight without resource to the grim enemy's gloomy gate. The thought was painful beyond measure, but it seemed to Pathema that the noble-minded man must die! While the fever lay upon him he spoke in bits of sentences about the Nazarene, mysterious, divine! and the devoted disciple Pathema. His language was now subdued and reverential, tender and touching, as if he stood in the presence of unearthly beings; then indignant, emphatic, even wild, as if he were again surrounded by the cruel and inquisitive multitude--a wildness wholly unlike that of the quiet reserved man in health. Sitting up and pointing to the walls he would cry-- "Great God! the fiends, mad, malignant, blood-thirsty, the fiends of Tartarus have entered thy fair world in the bodies of men." CHAPTER XIV. DAY. Tharsos did not die. Had the lion's claws twisted, or torn a little deeper, or had there been incapable nursing, there would have been no hope. But the animal missed the vitals, and the faithful nurse made the most of what remained--she would have readily yielded life at her loving though painful duty.