 us. I said just now our load is not light,
but how much heavier was the burden he took upon him of his own free
will to release us from woe. Every one must work, nay even Caesar
himself, but he who could dwell in the glory of his Father let himself
be mocked and scorned and spit in the face, let the crown of thorns be
pressed on his suffering head, bore his heavy cross, sinking under its
weight, and endured a death of torment, and all for our sakes, without
a murmur. But he suffered not in vain, for God accepted the sacrifice of
his Son, and did his will and said, 'All that believe on Him should not
perish, but have everlasting life.' And though a new and weary day is
now beginning, and though it should be followed by a thousand wearier
still, though death is the end of life--still we believe in our
Redeemer, we have God's word bidding us out of sorrows and sufferings
into his Heaven, promising us for a brief time of misery in this world,
endless ages of joy.--Now go to work. Our sturdy friend Krates will
work for you dear Knakias until your finger is healed. When the bread
is distributed remember, each of you, the children of our poor deceased
brother Philammon. You, poor Gibbus, will find your labors bitter
to-day. This man's master, my dear brethren, sold both his daughters
yesterday to a dealer from Smyrna; but if you never see them again in
Egypt, or in any other country, my friend, you will meet them in the
home of your Heavenly Father--of that you may rest assured. Our life
on earth is but a pilgrimage, and Heaven is the goal, and the Guide who
teaches us never to miss the way, is our Saviour. Weariness and toil,
sorrow and suffering are easy to bear, to him who knows that when
the solemn hour is near, the King of Kings shall throw open his
dwelling-place, and invite him to enter as a favored guest to inhabit
there, where all we have loved have found joy and rest."

"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will refresh
you," said a man's loud voice again from the circle that sat round the
old man. The old man stood up, signed to a boy who distributed the bread
in equal shares to the workmen, and took up a jar with handles, out of
which he filled a large wooden cup with wine.

Not a word of this discourse had escaped Mastor, and the often repeated
verse, "Come unto me all ye that labor," dwelt in his mind like the
invitation of a hospitable friend bidding him to happy days of freedom
and enjoyment. A distant gleam shone through the weight of his troubles,
seeming to promise the dawn of a new day, and he reverently went up to
the old man, in the first place to ask him if he was the overseer of the
workmen who stood round him.

"I am," replied the old man, and as soon as he learnt what Mastor
required as a commission from the controlling architect, he pointed out
some young slaves who quickly brought the water that he needed.

Pontius met the Emperor's servant and his water-carriers and remarked,
loudly enough for Mastor to understand him, to Pollux who was with him:

"The architect's servant is getting Christians to wait upon his master
to-day. They are regular and sober workmen who do their duty silently
and well."

While Mastor was giving his master towels, and helping to dry and dress
him, he was far less attentive than usual, for he could not get the
words he had heard from the overseer's lips out of his mind. He had not
understood them all, but he had fully comprehended that there was a kind
and loving God who had suffered in his own person the utmost torments,
who was especially gracious to the poor, the miserable, and the
bondsman, and who promised to refresh them and comfort them, and to
re-unite them to those who had once been dear to them. "Come unto me,"
sounded again and again in his ears, and struck so warmly to his heart
that he could not help thinking first of his mother, who, so many a
time, when he was a child, had called to him only to clasp him in her
arms as he ran towards her, and to press him to her heart. Just so had
he often called his poor little dead son, and the feeling that there
could be any one who might still call to him--the forsaken lonely
man--with loving words to release him from his griefs, to reunite him
to his mother, his father, and all the dear ones left behind in his lost
and distant home, took half the bitterness from his pain.

He was accustomed to listen to all that was said in the Emperor's
presence, and year by year he had learnt to understand more of what
he heard. He had often heard the Christians discussed, and usually as
deluded but dangerous fools. Many of his fellow-slaves, too, he
had heard called Christian idiots, but still not unfrequently very
reasonable men, and sometimes even Hadrian himself, had taken the part
of the Christians.

This was the first time that Mastor had heard from their own lips what
they believed and hoped, and now, while fulfilling his duties he
could hardly bear the delay before he could once more seek out the old
pavement-worker, to enquire of him, and to have the hopes confirmed
which his words had aroused in his soul.

No sooner had Hadrian and Antinous gone into the living-room than Mastor
had hastened off across the court to find the Christians. There he tried
to open a conversation with the overseer concerning his faith, but the
old man answered that there was a season for everything; just now
he could not interrupt the work, but that he might come again after
sundown, and that he then would tell him of Him who had promised to
refresh the sorrow-laden.

Mastor thought no more of making his escape. When he appeared again in
his master's presence there was such a sunny light in his blue eyes that
Hadrian left the angry words he had prepared for him unspoken, and cried
to Antinous, laughing and pointing to the slave:

"I really believe the rascal has consoled himself already, and found a
new mate. Let us, too, follow the precept of Horace, so far as we may,
and enjoy the present day. The poet may let the future go as it will,
but I cannot, for, unfortunately, I am the Emperor."

"And Rome may thank the gods that you are," replied Antinous.

"What happy phrases the boy hits upon sometimes," said Hadrian with a
laugh, and he stroked the lad's brown curls. "Now till noon I must work
with Phlegon and Titianus, whom I am expecting, and then perhaps we
may find something to laugh at. Ask the tall sculptor there behind the
screens, at what hour Balbilla is to sit to him for her bust. We must
also inspect the architect's work, and that of the Alexandrian artists
by daylight; that, their zeal has well deserved."

Hadrian retired to the room where his private secretary had ready for
him the despatches and papers for Rome and the provinces, which the
Emperor was required to read and to sign. Antinous remained alone in the
sitting-room, and for an hour he continued to gaze at the ships which
came to anchor in the harbor, or sailed out of the roads, and amused
himself with watching the swift boats which swarmed round the larger
vessels, like wasps round ripe fruit. He listened to the songs of the
sailors, and the music of the flute-players, to the measured beat of
the oars, which came up from the triremes in the private harbor of the
Emperor as they went out to sea. Even the pure blue of the sky and the
warmth of the delicious morning were a pleasure to him, and he asked
himself whether the smell of tar, which pervaded the seaport, were
agreeable or not.

Presently as the sun mounted in the sky, its bright sphere dazzled him;
he left the window with a yawn, stretched himself on a couch, and stared
absently up at the ceiling of the room without thinking of the subject
which the faded picture on it was intended to represent.

Idleness had long since grown to be the occupation of his life; but
accustomed to it as he was, he was sometimes conscious of its dark
attendant shadow ennui--as of a disagreeable and intrusive interruption
to the enjoyment of life. Generally in such lonely hours of idle reverie
his thoughts reverted to his belongings in Bithynia, of whom he never
dared to speak before the Emperor, or perhaps of the hunting excursions
he had made with Hadrian, of the slaught