When my uncle came out to his morning meal, a strange transformation had taken place. He was buoyant and cheerful; his face was radiant with a pleasing vivacity. Indeed he was absolutely mirthful. Martha regarded him with profound astonishment, which gave way to fear that the dear old man had lost his reason, when he burst out into the following speech:

“Rejoice, my friends! rejoice, my children! I have got it fixed. I see our way clearly out of all our troubles. Get ready, as quickly but as quietly as you can, to leave this horrible place. Be silent as the grave. A ship will be ready for us on Sunday afternoon; and while these mad people are yelling in their vile amphitheatre, she will weigh anchor, slip her cable, and with Mary on board and angels smiling on the voyage, her prow will point steadily for the land of Gaul.”

During this speech he was rubbing his hands with glee; and at the conclusion of it he waved them over his head in an excited manner. His listeners showed by their silence and the tears in their eyes what they thought of this singular conduct.

Seeing Beltrezzor so thoroughly in earnest, the little group became hopeful and cheerful, and proceeded with alacrity to make preparations for the sudden and strange journey. Beltrezzor went out into the city, and was incessantly occupied in arranging and working for his remarkable enterprise. He barely came home to sleep at night, so much had he to do in so little time.

He continued as vivacious as ever. His spirits, his hope, his assurance, seemed to rise every hour. At last, the evening before the Sabbath, the little party with their baggage were quietly transferred after nightfall from the house of Salothel to a beautiful new ship anchored away up at the very end of the long pier which adorns the river front of Antioch.

When they were all safe on board the vessel, Beltrezzor took Martha into the cabin, and opening a closet, he showed her several boxes of rosewood bound with brass bands.

“This,” he said, “is full of golden coins of various sizes and value. This contains jewels of incalculable splendor wrought by the greatest artificers in the East. This conceals precious stones of great beauty and high price. And this last contains some genuine diamonds, brought from the remotest India, and which would excite the envy of kings and queens.

“Here are the keys to them all. Take them.”

“And all this immense wealth,” said Martha in amazement.

“One half of it is for you and Mary.”

“And the other half?”

“Is for the man who brings Mary to this vessel to-morrow and conducts it to Gaul.”

“Oh, generous uncle; and for yourself?”

“Something far more valuable than all that.”

My uncle returned to the house of Salothel to sleep, fearing lest its sudden evacuation should excite the suspicion of the neighbors. Several servants also, bribed to profound secrecy, were to remain until after the Sabbath. Beltrezzor was obliged to move with great caution. A single false step might ruin everything. If the parties who were plotting the destruction of Mary obtained the least clue to his movements, his whole scheme might be thwarted. Mary would be given to the lion, the rest seized and perhaps murdered, and his splendid estate confiscated. He could not sleep a moment under the weight of such tremendous responsibilities.

It was the next morning, the day of the Jewish Sabbath, when the grand exhibition was to take place at the amphitheatre, that I arrived at Antioch. Just as my uncle was leaving the house for ever, he met me at the door. I thought he would have started from me as from a ghost. But he was one of those quiet men whom nothing ever surprised. He gave me a sedate but cordial welcome, just as if he had been expecting me. He had difficulty in calming my excitement and fury when I learned what a shocking fate was impending over my youngest and most beautiful sister.

He would not tell me anything about the means he had adopted for Mary’s deliverance. I was very restive under this burden of secrecy and mystery.

“Be quiet, my son,” he said, “or you will mar all. You have come into the fight too late to understand the exact state of the parties and to take command. Be patient. Do the part I give you. Do it well, and trust to me for the rest. We must not be seen together, for you may be watched, and that might betray me. You must not go to the ship until the hour of starting, for you might be followed there, and that might ruin us both.

“Stay in the house until nearly four o’clock. At four o’clock precisely be at the north-east angle of the amphitheatre on the opposite side of the street. You will see a chariot standing there with the letter G in gilt upon its side. A servant will be holding a gray horse a few paces off. At four, precisely, two persons will come out of one of the rear doors of the amphitheatre. They will enter the chariot and drive away rapidly. Mount the horse and follow them. Ten minutes afterward you will be in the arms of your sisters!”

I was very much dissatisfied with this arrangement. I felt that the stake was too immense and sacred for the whole work to be left to the knowledge, the discretion and the energy of one man. But my uncle was resolute in keeping his plan for Mary’s deliverance entirely to himself. He bade me adieu. There was a singular tenderness in his words:

The old sweet smile irradiated his face, and he went off as gayly as if he were going to a feast instead of entering upon a dangerous enterprise.

I went up stairs in the now deserted house of Salothel, and sat down at an open window, looking out on a beautiful public square. At any other time I would have been delighted with the scene. My heart would have been cheered by the tender green of the soft grass, by the rustling of the leaves in the wind, and the twittering of the birds among the branches. I would have admired the splendid domes and spires of Antioch rising all around above the tree-tops, and the brilliant tints of an eastern sky flecked with fantastic and fleecy clouds.

But the glories of nature and art were alike powerless on a spirit sunk into the deepest abyss of sorrow and fear. My heart was full of the direst forebodings. The morning hours passed gloomily away. My restlessness became insupportable. It must have been about noon, when, looking down into the public square, I saw a young man seated upon one of the iron benches, whose face immediately riveted my attention. It was my old friend and fellow-student, Demetrius, the brother of Helena.

I said to myself:

“I will speak to Demetrius. He has a good heart and a clear brain. He may suggest something which may lead to good. He may enlist Helena in our behalf, if Helena is here. I cannot see what harm can come of it.”

I went down into the square. Demetrius was overjoyed to see me. He did not, however, seem surprised to find me in Antioch. We sat down together and I told him all our troubles. I unbosomed my whole grief to him like a brother. I had the discretion to say nothing of Beltrezzor, resolving to let the old man work out his own plan alone. If harm came to any one, it could only be to myself.

Demetrius knew that the condemned woman was my sister, and professed the deepest interest and sympathy in her case. I pleaded the youth, and the innocent and sweet character of Mary, against the charge of foul and dangerous heresy.

He seemed to think the heresy was bad enough, for he indulged in the most contemptuous expressions against Jesus and his disciples. “But,” said he, “it is all the work of Lelius. No one can aid you so efficiently as Simon Magus. Great magician and sorcerer as he has been and is still, he is a noble and generous man. I am confident he will assist you in delivering your sister from her fearful peril. He is now lecturing to a select audience on the great points of his new philosophy. Come with me to his palace and hear him. When he has finished, we will consult together as to what is to be done.”

I followed him; and ascending the marble steps of a princely mansion, and passing through a great hall adorned with statues and immense vases of flowers, we were ushered into a room of moderate size, but superbly furnished. The audience nearly filled the place, for there were but two or three chairs near the door.

Simon Magus, on a raised platform, was in the very heat and height of an eloquent discourse. His subject was the nature of the soul and its transformations. His voice was winning, his gestures expressive, his eye a blaze of intellectual fire. His language was full of Orientalisms and Egyptian mysticisms. Taught in the severer school of Grecian philosophy, and blessed with the far greater analytic light of spiritual knowledge, I perceived at once that the influx of ideas into his mind came from cunning, subtle, evil spirits, and that the tendency of his words was to bewilder, dazzle and betray.

“You saw me,” said he, “turn water into wine just now. You saw me turn silver into gold. You saw me resolve a rose into nothing; you saw me restore it as it was before. These things, I told you, were symbolic of spiritual transformations.

“When the spirit by prayer, by faith, by watching, by study, by abstinence, by suffering—is purified and etherealized, it undergoes similar transformations, and from water becomes wine; from silver becomes gold; from human becomes divine. Thus it is that I have become the power of God—the Son of God—the Word of God; and that I have still a holier name, incommunicable to you.

“In this state I have supreme control over matter. You saw me a little while ago take up a deadly serpent. It bit a dog before your eyes and the creature died in a minute. It fastened itself upon my hands and my cheeks; I was unhurt. You saw me swallow balls of fire. I am unharmed. So I can float in the air like a bird; I can live under water like a fish. I can point my finger at a tree, and it will wither. I can call to a cloud, and it comes to me. I can curse a city, and it will sink into the sea.”

There was an excited and admiring murmur among his credulous hearers. The fanatical impostor continued:

“These powers are awful and incomprehensible to you who do not possess them. They are only given to the wise who use them wisely. But I have attained to a height of glory, in comparison with which these first labors and results are insignificant. Having become the emanation of God, I can create souls out of nothing. I can restore souls to life which had been given to annihilation. I will show you a soul I have created.”

I turned to look Demetrius in the face at this splendid creation (?) of his gifted brother-in-law. Demetrius had left the room unobserved.

“Simon,” said I to myself, “has lost his old sublime faith in his diabolical art, and has resorted to magical impostures.”

I turned my attention to Helena. Now I solemnly avow that the woman, her chair and all, whatever they may have been, were ten feet in the air, entirely unsupported by anything visible to mortal eye. Whether this was some magical trick, really explicable by natural law, or effected by the assistance of evil spirits, I do not know. Of this, however, I am certain, from experience and knowledge acquired in the spiritual world, that evil spirits can, under certain conditions, lift the heaviest articles high in the air and keep them there for a considerable time.

“This,” said Simon Magus, enjoying the ineffable amazement of his hearers—“this is the soul of Helen of Sparta, who caused the Trojan war. She was annihilated for her extreme wickedness. I have recalled her to life; and, wonderful to relate, I have purified and spiritualized her whole nature by the sanctifying influence of my presence.”

So thought every one who looked on. It is strange that I did not remember what I had been taught in the world of spirits, that syrens and wicked women there can counterfeit angelic forms so cunningly as to deceive the angels themselves for a while.

“There,” said I, to myself, “is a gentleness, a holiness, a purity, a mercy which I know will save my sister from the lion.”

The curtain or wall or whatever it was, was closed, and Simon went on with his lecture. I did not hear a word of it, so rapt was I in the contemplation of Helena’s seraphic face.

“Oh, if I could speak to that vision of superlative beauty, I am sure she would befriend my poor sister.”

Suddenly Demetrius touched me on the shoulder and whispered:

“My sister wishes to see you.”

I followed him, asking no questions, bewildered, unthinking, but whispering to myself, “Helena wishes to see me!”

Superbly beautiful as she was, that heavenly radiance and purity which I had seen upon her countenance a few moments before, had vanished. There was nothing spiritual in her expression. She was plainly no spirit and no soul just created, but a perfectly formed, glowing, enchanting woman of flesh and blood. I was about questioning her on the subject of her extraordinary deception, when she spoke:

“I knew you wanted to see me. I sent Demetrius out to look for you. You are in trouble, and I long to assist you. Sit down with me on these cushions and tell me all your story.”

She touched a little bell, and a tall, stately servant appeared at the door.

“Wine and refreshments,” said Helena.

We sat down together, and I told her all about poor Mary, still wisely omitting the part of Beltrezzor. The tears glistened in her brilliant eyes, and she exclaimed:

“As soon as Simon finishes his lecture, I will persuade him to grant your request. I have great power over him.”

A pang shot through my heart as I thought of Simon—the husband of this resplendent object of my youthful adoration. Alas! what was Helena to me? Why did I not remember the fatal effect of her love upon me? Why did I not remember the lessons of the spiritual world? Are there not passions which we can never conquer, struggle as we may? Are there not Canaanites of the soul that can never be expelled?

The wine and refreshments were brought, and Helena whispered something to the servant. I heard only the last words, “Tell him to make haste.” I thought it was a message to Simon, and that my dear benefactress was impatient to intercede for my sister.

“Come,” she said, “pledge our future joys in this delicate wine, and then tell me all about that wonderful voyage they say you made into the world of spirits.”

Fool that I was! excited by the powerful liquor, and still more intoxicated by the presence and smiles of that bewitching woman who repeatedly took my hand in hers, I profaned sacred things by lowering them to the level of her vulgar and sensual mind. She seemed vastly entertained by my story; and when I described the great feast of Grecian spirits, and her own splendid appearance in the scene, and her terrible metamorphosis, she laughed uproariously, and said it was one of the most charming stories she had ever heard in her life.

There was a sound of footsteps in the adjoining room.

“Come,” she said, filling my glass, “drink to the morrow which shall be happier than to-day.”

There was a rap or signal upon the wall.

“Simon’s lecture is over,” she said, rising. “This is his audience-chamber in which he receives a few pupils who question him on the deeper points of his subject. Their conversation would be very dull to us in our mood. Let us retire into my chamber, until they disperse, when we can speak to Simon alone.”

I followed her to the door of the room from which the signal had come. I hesitated, abashed, at the thought of entering her chamber.

“Oh come along,” she said, grasping my arm. “Do not be afraid of my chamber. It has carpets which render your feet inaudible. It has pictures and statues which ravish your senses.”

With that she drew me into the room.

I was immediately seized from behind by several powerful men, and thrown to the floor. With a peal of devilish laughter, my betrayer fled back into the audience-chamber.

I looked up, and Magistus was regarding me with a diabolical smile. A man was standing by him who riveted my attention. He was black, but his face was full of hideous white spots. One eye was gone, lids and all, so as to leave a frightful deep hole in its place. He wore a red turban. This strange, repulsive creature stooped to fasten a kind of iron bracelet on my feet. I watched him in silence. He softly kissed the top of my foot unseen by the others.

I knew him. It was Ethopus. Poor Ethopus!

Helena peered in at the door with her beautiful, laughing face.

“How does my boy-lover like my bed-chamber?”

“How could you betray me in this atrocious manner?” said I, indignantly.

“Magistus offered me a beautiful diamond ring to get you into his power. You know we women could never resist the fascination of diamond rings!”

“And my poor sister!” I exclaimed, in despair.

The demon departed. The vision of the woman-serpent in the world of spirits was a prophecy.

I had fallen again—this time how low! into what an abyss!

The amphitheatre was open! and great Heavens! I was bound hand and foot and cast into a dungeon.

“Yes,” said the soldier with a sigh.

“Here you are a stranger, an exile, a prisoner yourself. What are these Romans to you, hereditary enemies, that you should obey them? robbers and murderers of your friends and countrymen, that you should love them?”

“I despise them,” said Euphorbus, gruffly.

“In Gaul you could be happy. You could return to your old home perhaps.”

“The Romans have burnt it.”

“You could rebuild it. You could take care of your mother in her old age. You could have a wife at your side and children about your knees.”

“Do not talk about these things!” said the Gaul. “They sadden me.”

“Talk about them? You shall have them; they are yours. This vessel is yours; one-half of that immense treasure is yours.”

“Mine? mine?”

“Yes, yours, on one condition.”

“What condition?”

“That you bring my little Mary out of the amphitheatre to-morrow—” and the old man, overpowered by the strain upon his feelings, burst into tears.

Euphorbus was deeply moved.

“You ask an impossibility! Oh that I could—”

“Will you if you can?” exclaimed the old man, earnestly seizing him by the hand.

“Certainly I will—”

“It is all I ask!” said Beltrezzor. “Leave it to me. Let me into your private room at three o’clock and I will explain everything to you. If you are not satisfied you can then refuse.”

“You speak mysteries,” said the Gaul; “but you yourself are a mystery. Come, as you promise. My life is not much, and I am willing to risk it for you and your little Mary as you call her.”

My uncle had been twice every day to visit his niece. The more he saw of her helplessness, her purity, her suffering and her terror, the more she entwined herself about his heart, and the more resolutely did he labor to achieve her deliverance. She clung to him so tenderly, and as the fatal hour approached her fear of the lion became so heartrending, that the old man could hardly tear himself from her embraces.

The Roman guard, accustomed to him, received his coins smilingly and scarcely noticed his coming out. For three days before the Sabbath he had worn a green shade over his eyes.

“I got dust in them,” said he to the soldiers, “and an old man’s eyes are weak.”

Euphorbus, stern and pale, came into his office.

“Now for your plan,” said he to Beltrezzor. “It is now or never.”

My uncle drew from the ample folds of his robe a package, which he laid on a table.

“Now,” said he, “attention! Mary and I are to change places. She is to come out with you, disguised as her uncle. I am to remain in the dungeon, disguised as Mary.”

Euphorbus staggered back with protruded eyes.

“And to be thrown to the lion yourself?”

“It is the only way,” said the old man, slowly and meekly.

Euphorbus fell upon his neck and kissed his cheek:

“I have heard that heroes were sometimes elevated into gods; but you are the only man of whom I could believe it.”

“You see,” continued Beltrezzor, “here is a mask of the finest parchment, painted in imitation of Mary’s face, with long beautiful golden hair attached to the headpiece.”

“It is indeed an astonishing likeness. The face is perfect. And where is the mask in imitation of yours?”

He untied a string behind his neck, and drew off his hair and beard at once. He was a beardless bald old man. He wore his mask.

“Here are two flat pieces of cork,” he continued, “to be put into my sandals, which are peculiarly constructed so as to conceal them. That will add an inch to Mary’s height. Then you see my turban is so arranged that a little traction here elevates it an inch more. That will make it right, for she is nearly as tall as I am. The robes you know we can simply exchange.”

The old man dwelt upon these details until he convinced Euphorbus that the singular exchange was perfectly feasible.

The voice of Simon Magus was now heard in the courtyard. He had just looked into Mary’s window to see that his victim had not escaped. He threw the guard some money. He then spoke to three men who stood before him with long poles in their hands, each pole having an iron hook at the end of it. He spoke so loud that Mary and every one heard him:

“You will stand inside the iron railing and watch the lion’s attack. So long as he eats the neck and shoulders or the lower half of the body, let him alone. When he begins upon the chest, drag the body away from him with your hooks. Remember! I want the woman’s heart uninjured. If you cannot do it, I will give the signal for the keepers to throw in the murderer Trebonius. That will save my prize and satisfy the people.”

After this horrible speech he entered the amphitheatre by a private way and resumed his seat near the gorgeous chair of Lelius.

“The coast is clear,” said Euphorbus. “Now is our time.”

They entered the courtyard. Euphorbus gave the guards double money.

“Our poor old friend,” said he, “is overwhelmed with grief to-day. He cannot speak. It is his last visit.”

They passed into the dungeon. Mary was crouching in one corner, white as a corpse. She sprang to her uncle’s arms. She could not speak; she could not weep. Terror had paralyzed the fountains of thought and sorrow.

“I have come to save you, my child,” said the old man, “Courage! and you will be free in ten minutes. Lazarus is in the street waiting for you. Martha is on a beautiful ship waiting for you. In one hour you will be on the blue sea sailing away from this awful city.”

Mary stared at him in wild surprise.

“Free? Lazarus waiting! and Martha?”

The transition from total despair to hope was too much for her weak nerves. She swooned.

The old man knelt by her side, kissing her hands and chafing her temples while the great tears rolled down his cheeks.

She revived presently and sat up.

“You say I may be saved, uncle. Now tell me how. I am calm and can comprehend you perfectly.”

Beltrezzor proceeded to explain everything as he had done to Euphorbus. She heard him patiently, and then said in a quiet tone:

“And, poor good man! do you think I will permit you to be eaten by the lion in my place? Oh no, that is impossible. Think of some other plan.”

“There is no other way. I shall not be eaten by the lion.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am not a Christian. You are condemned for heresy. I am a Gentile.”

“But they will kill you for contriving my escape, and this good keeper also.”

“Oh no! That offence is not punishable with death. They will fine me heavily, but I am rich and can pay. The keeper will escape with you and protect you.”

After much persuasion and argument on one side and many doubts and questionings on the other, Mary’s scruples were at last overcome, and the transformation in both parties effected so adroitly that detection seemed impossible.

Mary suddenly turned her earnest eyes on Beltrezzor’s face.

“Uncle, if you deceive me in this matter, it will kill me.”

“Courage! my sweet girl,” said the old man, smiling—“come what may. I shall rest better to-night than I did last night; and the sun will shine for me more beautifully to-morrow than it has to-day.”

“Come, come,” said Euphorbus, “we must be going.”

Oh the anguish of that parting!

Who can imagine the thoughts of that brave old man, as he knelt in the woman’s dress, with the lion’s growl in his ear! How eagerly he listened! How freely he breathed when he heard no interruption in the courtyard; no outcry; no alarm. They are safe! How he lifted his heart to heaven!

Did he spend that last hour in prayer? To what God did he pray? What faith did he offer up as his claim to salvation? What matters it? Had he not kept the commandments of God?

Was not his soul free from irreverence and profanity and theft and murder and adultery and perjury and uncharitableness? Did he not love his neighbor more than himself?

This disciple of Zoroaster, was he not a child of God?

The hour passed. There was a solemn hush in the grand amphitheatre. The dead gladiators were dragged from the arena. Sliding panels were withdrawn and the great Næmean lion was seen behind his iron bars furiously lashing his sides with his tail.

The herald of Lelius cried with a loud voice:

“Bring forth the woman!”

There was a great rustling and stir in the vast audience. Every one held his breath. A sudden outcry was raised from the prison:

“She has escaped!”

He returned in a moment dragging the poor, old, bald-headed and beardless man by the arms, and holding up the female mask in the air, he exclaimed:

“The woman and the keeper have fled; but here is the miscreant; here is the criminal! Clear the arena and give him to the lion.”

“Give him to the lion!” echoed thousands of voices, followed by thunders of applause.

A tall, stern-looking man, in the front row of seats, sprang to his feet and looking over to Lelius, exclaimed:

“Justice! justice! This man is no Christian; this man is no heretic.”

“To the lion—to the lion!” interrupted the multitude with fiercer yells than before.

Simon Magus motioned significantly to the governor.

“To the lion,” said Lelius, waving his hand.

“I defy you,” said the speaker, in a loud and stern voice—“I defy you to throw him to the lion.

“In the name of the Senate and people of Rome I warn you that this man, Beltrezzor of Persia, is a Roman citizen.”

Silence was partly restored; all eyes glaring upon the speaker as he continued.

“Release the Roman citizen,” said Lelius in a proud and haughty tone, rising from his seat.

Whilst he was speaking Beltrezzor sank gently to the ground. He had been released by an authority higher than that of Rome.

“He is dead!” exclaimed a thousand voices at once.

“He died of fear,” said Simon Magus.

“He died of joy,” said the voice from the benches; “for that face is the face of an angel.”