which had preceded it, had a very different effect upon them. In Medora's gentle breast no sentiment arose except unmingled horror and disgust. Deeply she lamented that she had not more firmly resisted the wish of her parents that she should appear in the Circus, even though it might have drawn upon her the anger of her stern father, Sophis. Firmly she resolved that nothing should ever induce her again to be present at such an inhuman exhibition, which she felt assured was altogether repugnant to the spirit of the great Osiris and the benignant Isis, the goddess to whose worship she was especially devoted.

Alypius' natural disposition was hardly less compassionate and averse to cruelty than Medora's; but the creed which he professed, and the philosophy which he followed, and the companions with whom he associated, had all tended to blunt his finer feelings, and give him a certain disregard of human life and human suffering. The passion for blood and destruction— which seems to be innate in the heart of man, however it may be concealed and kept in abeyance by better feelings, and by the restraints of civilization-was not dead within his breast; and the sight of the struggles for life or death (which on that day he witnessed for the first time) aroused in him a tumult of feelings of which he had not deemed himself capable. The generosity of his spirit led him to sympathize with the more helpless party; and he would willingly have rushed on the stage, and exposed his own life to peril, if he could thus have aided the doomed and wretched Lybians.

Slowly they were driven to the back of the platform, fiercely contending every foot of ground, and leaving some of their

executioners dead and dying among the greater numbers of their own vanquished comrades. Then came a slaughter that made Alypius' heart beat, and his blood boil; and that caused Medora to cover her pale face with her hands, and shrink down to hide her gushing tears, and check her suffocating sobs.

Amid the loud cheers of the assembled multitude, this scene of butchery ended. Not one Lybian remained to claim the mercy of the Prefect; and the victors were hailed as benefactors to the state, and received the applause due to heroes.

The excitement which had absorbed all the faculties of Alypius soon died away. One glance at Medora had recalled him to his better feelings; and he now earnestly hoped that the spectacle had concluded, and that he might escape from the scene of cruelty into the pure free air of heaven.

CHAPTER III.

UT it was not so. Again the herald stood forth, and proclaimed the crowning act of the fearful drama. The Prefect had resolved to testify his zeal for the honour of the Emperor, and his desire to preserve the tranquillity of the city, and to promote the enjoyment of his people, by making a public sacrifice of certain Christians who had been seized on suspicion of conspiracy against the government, and had refused to abjure the errors of their faith and practice.

This announcement was received with a burst of applause; and among the lower orders the joy seemed universal. But as Alypius gazed wildly around the Circus, to see if an egress would be possible, he thought he detected a very different expression on the features of some individuals among the aristocracy. There were looks of fear, and pain, and shame, as if pity, or some deeper feeling, were not unknown in that great assembly.

"What are you about, Alypius ?" whispered his friend. "You look utterly scared. I saw that you felt like a man— and a brave one as you are-during that cowardly massacre of the naked Lybians. But now your face is as white as that of the Egyptian girl who sits there trembling like a child. Command yourself, my dear fellow, and try to look as pleased and as grateful to our noble Prefect as all good citizens and

devout worshippers of the gods ought to be. See, the fanatical fools are already on the stage, and the tigers know them for

their prey!"

Alypius had seen the little band of martyrs led on the stage before his friend had perceived them; and his eyes and thoughts were riveted on their forms with such intensity that he beheld nothing else, and was unconscious that Julius continued to address him.

The deep interest which he felt in these helpless victims seemed to chain him to his seat; and he even forgot his intention of leaving the Circus, until the movement and noise which succeeded the herald's announcement had passed away, and all were still and hushed in expectation. Then he saw it was too late to get away unobserved; and he feared to draw on himself the raillery of Julius, and perhaps the rougher observations of the excited multitude.

So he sat still, and looked at the little band of Christians; and he thought of his mother's friend, Monica, and rejoiced that she was not among the doomed party. Then he looked at Medora, and he saw her pleading face lifted up towards her father, and her pale and quivering lips moving as if in earnest entreaty. But those looks, which Alypius thought might have melted a heart of stone, did not move Sophis-no, not even when his wife seemed to join her supplications to those of her daughter. With a stern look of authority, and a few words of decided import, he seemed to settle the question; and Alypius thought he could perceive Medora heave a convulsive sigh, as she turned away her glistening eyes from the stage.

How shall we tell what followed? How shall we describe

the cruel and appalling scene that was enacted for the amusement of the luxurious Alexandrians? We must again leave the dreadful and harrowing details to the imaginations of our readers, and briefly allude to the noble victims and their holy courage.

The heroic band consisted of five persons. One, an aged man, was supported by his son, a young soldier of noble and undaunted bearing. Near them, but shrinking from the public gaze, were two sisters, who clung to one another as if for support and sympathy, and who trembled with mingled shame and dread; but all the while Alypius could see that their fortitude and pious resolution were as firm and unshaken as that of the soldier, whose life had accustomed him to face death with calmness. The other victim was a boy, a fair and gentle boy, whose whole appearance bespoke the care and nurturing of a loving mother. Where was that mother now, when her son, the darling of her heart, stood on that dreadful stage, and awaited agony and death? Happily she was in her quiet grave. She had been a widow and a Christian for several years; and she had taught her only child to love and to trust One who loved him even more than she could do, and who would never forsake him, even when a mother's power and a mother's love might fail.

Young Icilius had received the Christian teaching of his devoted mother into a guileless and tractable heart; and when they were denounced and cast into prison together, as disciples of the Crucified, it was he who had cheered that faithful but broken-hearted mother, all whose fears were for her child. And when his mother sank and died in that gloomy captivity, the last sound that met her ears, ere they awoke to the songs of