Before us goes the long array of tombs up to the ancient city. Here the mighty men of Rome once found a resting-place, carrying with them even to their graves all the pomp of wealth, of glory, and of power. Beneath our feet are the rude graves of those whom in life they cast out as unworthy to breathe the same air of heaven. Now what a change! Around us lie these stately tombs all in ruins, their sanctity desecrated, their doors broken down, their dust scattered to the winds. The names of those who were buried here are unknown; the empire which they reared has fallen forever; the legions which they led to conquer have slept the sleep that knows no waking. But on the memory of the persecuted ones who rest below a world looks back adoring their sepulcher has become a place of pilgrimage; and the work in which they took such a noble part has been handed down to us to be perpetuated for evermore. Humbled, despised, outcast, afflicted, fame may not have written their names upon the scroll of history, yet this much we know, "These are they which came out of great tribulation And have washed their robes And made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God And serve him day and night in his temple; And He that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more; neither thirst any more; Neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat; For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, And shall lead them unto living fountains of waters, And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." THE END. End of Project Gutenberg's The Martyr of the Catacombs, by Anonymous