There was an emperor of Rome named Domitian, a good and a wise prince, who suffered no offenders to escape. There was a high feast in his hall, the tables glittered with gold and silver, and groaned with plenteous provision; his nobles feasted with him—

The porter in his lodge made his fire blaze brightly, and solaced himself with Christmas cheer, every now and then grumbling at his office, that kept him from the gayeties of the retainers’ hall. The wind blew cold, the sleet fell quick, as the bell of the king’s gate sounded heavy and dull.

“Who comes now?” grumbled the porter; “a pretty night to turn out from fire and food. Why, the very bell itself finds it too cold to clank loudly. Well, well—duty is duty; some say it’s a pleasure—humph! Hilloa, friend, who are you? what do you want, man?”

The traveller whom the porter thus addressed was a tall, weather-beaten man, with long white hair that fluttered from beneath his cap of furs, and whose figure, naturally tall and robust, seemed taller and larger from the vast cloak of bearskins with which he was enveloped.

“I am a merchant from a far country,” said the man; “many wonderful things do I bring to your emperor, if he will purchase of my valuables.”

“Well, come in, come in, man,” said the porter; “the king keeps high Christmas feast, and on this night all men may seek his presence. Wilt take some refreshment, good sir?”

“I am never hungry, nor thirsty, nor cold.”

“I’m all,—there—straight before you, good sir—the hall porter will usher you in—straight before,” muttered the old porter, as he returned to his fire and his supper. “Never hungry, thirsty, nor cold—what a good poor man he would make; humph! he loses many a pleasure, though,” continued the porter, as he closed the door of the lodge.

The strange merchant presented himself to the hall porter, and was ushered by him into the presence of the emperor.

“Whom have we here?” said Domitian, as the strange visitor made his obeisance. “What seekest thou of me?”

“I bring many things from far countries. Wilt thou buy of my curiosities?”

“Let us see them,” rejoined Domitian.

“I have three maxims of especial wisdom and excellence, my lord.”

“Let us hear them.”

“Nay, my lord; if thou hearest them, and likest not, then I have lost both my maxims and my money.”

“And if I pay without hearing them, and they are useless, I lose my time and my money. What is the price?”

“A thousand florins, my lord.”

“A thousand florins for that of which I know not what it is,” replied the king.

“My lord,” rejoined the merchant, “if the maxims do not stand you in good stead, I will return the money.”

“Be it so then; let us hear your maxims.”

“The first, my lord, is on this wise: Never begin any thing until you have calculated what the end will be.”

“I like your maxim much,” said the king; “let it be recorded in the chronicles of the kingdom, inscribed on the walls and over the doors of my palaces and halls of justice, and interwoven on the borders of the linen of my table and my chamber.”

“The second, my lord, is: Never leave a highway for the bye-way.”

“I see not the value of this maxim; but to the third.”

“Never sleep in the house where the master is an old man and the wife a young woman. These three maxims, if attended to, my lord, will stand you in good stead.”

“We shall see,” said the king; “a year and a day for the trial of each, at the end of this time we will settle accounts.”

“Good master,” said the king’s jester, “wilt sell thy chance of the thousand florins for my fool’s cap?”

“Wait, and see what the end will be,” rejoined the merchant; “a year and a day hence I will return to see how my first maxim has fared. Farewell, my lord....”

The year and a day were nearly elapsed, and yet the first maxim had not been clearly proved. Domitian remained severely just, and the ill-intentioned of his nobles plotted his destruction in the hopes of indulging their vices more freely under the rule of his successor. Many were the plots they concocted to put him to death, but all were foiled by his foresight and prudence.

“Every failure,” said the conspirators at a midnight meeting, “brings danger nearer to ourselves.”

“Even so, brothers, but this time we will not fail,” said one of the number; “do ye not mind that I am the king’s barber; every day he bares his throat to my razor, it is but one slash, and we are free; promise me the crown: in return for this, I will give you freedom by the king’s death, and free license during my reign.”

“It is well spoken,” cried all the conspirators; “the barber shall be our king.”

On the next morning, the barber entered the chamber of Domitian, and prepared to shave the king. The razor was stropped, the lather spread upon the royal chin, and the towel fastened round the royal breast. On the edge of the napkin were these words in letters of gold: “Never begin any thing until you have calculated what the end will be.”

The barber’s eye fell on these words, they arrested his attention, he paused in his labors.

“What am I about to do?” thought he to himself, “to kill the king, to gain his crown; am I sure of the crown? shall I not rather be slain miserably, and die amid unheard-of tortures and infamy? whilst those that plot with me will turn against me, and make me their scape-goat.”

“Art dreaming, sir barber?” exclaimed the king.

At the king’s voice, the barber trembled exceedingly, he dropt the razor from his hand, and fell at his sovereign’s feet.

“What means all this?”

“Oh, my good lord!” exclaimed the barber, as he knelt trembling at Domitian’s feet, “this day was I to have killed thee; but I saw the maxim written on the napkin; I thought of the consequences, and now repent me of my wickedness. Mercy, my good lord, mercy!”

“Be faithful, and fear not,” replied the king.

“The merchant, my lord the king,” said a servant of the chamber, who entered at that moment, followed by the old merchant.

“Thou art come at a good time, sir merchant; the first maxim has been proved; it has saved my life; it was worthy of its price.”

“Even as I expected, my lord; a year and a day hence expect me again.”

“We will trust no more to a single hand,” said one of the conspirators, when they met again after the barber’s repentance; “this time we will all share.”

“I propose,” said one of the rebel lords, “an ambush on the road to Naples. Every year, on the day after Christmas, the king journeys thither; the bye-path near to the city gates is the nearest road, peradventure he will go that way.”

When the Christmas night was over, the king prepared to journey to Naples; a great company of nobles, knights, and men-at-arms, went with him. Not far from the city, he came to the place where the highway and bye-path diverged.

“My lord,” said an old noble, “the day is far spent, the sun sinks fast in the horizon; will not my lord turn by the bye-path, as it is far shorter than the high-road?”

“Nay,” said the king, “it’s a year and a day since the merchant’s first maxim saved my life; now will I test the second admonition, ‘never leave a highway for a bye-path,’ but go part of ye by that path, and prepare for me in the city; I and the rest will pursue the highway.”

Onward rode the knights and the soldiers by the bye-path, and hastened towards the city; as they neared the ambush, the traitors sprang upon them, for they thought the king was among them. Every man slew his opponent, and there remained not one of the king’s company, to bear the tidings to the king, but a youth, a little page whom the conspirators did not remark during the attack.

At the city gates, the king found the merchant who had sold him his maxims.

“Halt, O king!” said he, “the second maxim has been proved.”

“How so?” replied the king.

“The company that rode by the bye-path are slain, every one of them save this little page, who is here to tell the sad tale.”

“Is this so, good youth?”

“Alas, my lord, it is too true; from behind the trees they rushed upon our company as we rode lightly and merrily, and no one, save your poor page, lives to tell the tale.”

“For a second time is my life saved by thy maxim; let it be inscribed in gold: ‘Never leave a highway for a bye-way.’”

“For a year and a day, O king, fare thee well.”

“A murrain on the old fool’s maxims,” grumbled the chief of the conspirators, when they discovered that the king had escaped their design; “we are beaten out of every plot, and had best submit to his dominion.”

“Nay,” exclaimed a young and licentious noble, “there is luck in odd numbers, let us have one more trial, a sink or a swim.”

“I care not if we try once more,” said the old rebel; “but come, who suggests a scheme?”

“I, and I, and I!” exclaimed several at once; but their schemes were pronounced futile.

“What say ye to this?” said the young man who had spoken before: “every year the king goes to the small village town where his old nurse lives; there is but one house in the village where he can be lodged, let us bribe the master of the house, that he slay our tyrant while he sleeps.”

The plan was approved by the rebel lords, the bribe offered and accepted by the old man, to whose house the king always came. The king came as usual to the village town, and to his old lodgings. As he entered, the old man received him with humility and feigned delight, and a young damsel, not eighteen years of age, attended at the door step. The king noticed the damsel, he arrested his steps, and called to the old man.

“Good father,” asked he, “is yonder damsel thy daughter or thy niece?”

“Neither, my lord,” replied the old man; “she is my newly married wife.”

“Away, away,” said the king to his chamberlain, “prepare me a bed in another house, for I will not sleep here to-night.”

“Even as my lord wishes,” rejoined the chamberlain; “but my lord knows there is no other house in this place fit for a king’s residence, save this one; here every thing is prepared, every thing commodious.”

“I have spoken,” replied the king; “remain thou here; I will sleep elsewhere.”

In the night, the old man and his wife arose, stole on tiptoe to the chamber which was prepared for the king, and where the chamberlain now slept in the royal bed; all was dark as they approached the bed, and plunged a dagger into the breast of the sleeping noble.

“It is done,” said they; “to bed, to bed.”

Early the next morning the king’s page knocked at the door of the humble abode where the king had passed the night.

“Why so early, good page?” asked the king.

“My lord, the old merchant waits thy rising; and even now strange news is come from the village.”

“Let the merchant and the messenger come in.”

The merchant seemed greatly elated, his eye glistened with joy, and his figure appeared dilated beyond its ordinary height. The messenger was pale and trembling, and staring aghast with fear.

“My lord, my good lord,” exclaimed the pallid messenger, “a horrible murder has been committed on your chamberlain; he lies dead in the royal bed.”

“The third maxim is tried and proved,” said the merchant.

“Give God the praise,” said the king; “thy reward is earned: a robe of honor, and thrice thy bargained price; to the old man and his wife, immediate death.”

“What theological application does the author append to this clever tale?” said Herbert, “for moral it wants not, as it tells its own.”

“The emperor is any good Christian; the porter, none other than free will; whilst the merchant represents our blessed Saviour. The florins are virtues, given in exchange for the maxims; the grace and favor of God. The conspirators are devils; the highway is the Ten Commandments; the bye-way, a bad life; the rebels in ambush, heretics.”

“So far as it goes, I do not object to the explanation; it requires great additions, however,” replied Herbert.

“Which the author considered to be compensated for by adding more characters than the tale contained, in several of his other explanations.”

“Domitian is obliged to the old monk,” said Thompson, “for such a pretty character of justice and mercy.”

“See again the system of compensation; in the next story Adrian is as much traduced, as Domitian flattered in this. But, remember, the old monk was writing neither histories nor biographies; any name that occurred to him served his purpose; he looks more to the effect of his incidents than to the names of his characters. With this prelude I will give you

When Trajan was emperor of Rome, Sir Placidus, a knight of great prowess, and a most skilful commander, was chief of the armies of the empire. Like his imperial master, he was merciful, just, and charitable, but a worshipper of idols, a despiser of the Christian faith. His wife was worthy of his virtues, and was of one accord with him in his religion. Two sons had he, educated in all the magnificence that befitted their father’s station; but, as was to be expected, the faith of the parents was the faith of their children; they were idolaters.

It was a fair, soft day, the southerly wind blew lightly over the meadows, and the fleecy clouds, ever and anon obscuring the sun, proclaimed the hunters’ day. Sir Placidus rode to the chase. His friends and his retainers were with him, and a right gallant company were they. A herd of deer was soon found, the dogs loosed from their leashes, the bugles sounded, and the whole of the company in full and eager pursuit. One stag of lofty stature, and many-branching antlered head, separated itself from the rest of the herd, and made for the depths of the neighboring forest. The company followed the herd, but Sir Placidus gave his attention to the noble animal, and tracked it through the mazes of the wood.

Swift and long was the chase. Sir Placidus rode after the stag, ever gaining just near enough to the noble animal to inspire him with a hope of its ultimate capture, yet never so near as to strike it with his hunting spear. On, on they went with untiring speed. The wood and its thickets were passed, a lofty hill rose to the view. He pressed the stag up its sides, and gained rapidly on the chase. In a moment the stag turned and faced the knight; he prepared to strike, but his hand was stayed as he saw between the horns of the creature a cross encircled with a ring of glorious light. Whilst he mused on the wonder, a voice addressed him. The stag seemed to speak thus to the knight:

“Why persecutest thou me, Placidus? for thy sake have I assumed this shape; I am the God whom thou ignorantly worshippest; I am Christ. Thine alms and thy prayers have gone up before me, and therefore am I now come. As thou dost hunt this stag; even so will I hunt thee.”

Placidus swooned at these words, and fell from his horse. How long he lay on the ground he knew not. When his senses returned, he cried in anguish:

“Tell me thy will, O Lord, that I may believe in thee, and perform it.”

Then replied the voice: “I am Christ, the son of the living God. I created heaven and earth, caused the light to arise, and divided it from the darkness. I appointed days, and seasons, and years. I formed man out of the dust of the earth, and for his sake took upon me his form. Crucified, and buried, on the third day I arose again.”

“All this I believe, Lord,” replied Placidus; “yea, and that thou art he who bringest back the wandering sinner.”

Then said the voice: “If thou believest, go into the city and be baptized.”

“Shall I reveal this unto my wife and children, Lord, that they also may believe?”

“Yea,” replied the voice; “return here on the morrow’s dawn, that thou mayest know of thy future life.”

Placidus returned to his wife, and told her all that had happened unto him; then did they believe, and were baptized, and their children with them. The knight was called Eustace, his wife Theosbyta, whilst to his two sons the names of Theosbytus and Agapetus were given in their baptism. On the morrow, the knight returned to the place where he had seen the vision.

“I implore thee, O Lord, to manifest thyself according to thy word,” prayed the knight.

Then the voice was heard, saying: “Blessed art thou, Eustace, in that thou hast been washed with the laver of my grace, and thereby overcome the Devil. Now hast thou trodden him to dust, who beguiled thee. Now will thy fidelity be shown; for he whom thou hast forsaken will rage continually against thee. Many things must thou undergo for my sake. Thou must become another Job; fear not; persevere; my grace is sufficient for thee. In the end thou shalt conquer; choose then, whether thou wilt experience thy trials in thine old age, or forthwith.”

“Even as thou willest, O Lord; yet, if it may be so, try me now, and help me in my trial.”

“Be bold, Eustace; my grace can support you.” With these words, the voice died away, and was no more heard; and Eustace, after prayer and praise to God, rose from his knees, and returned to his own house.

But a few days had elapsed, ere the trials of Job came upon Eustace and his family; pestilence carried off his flocks and his herds, and his servants fled away, or died with their charges. Robbers plundered his palace, driving away the knight, his wife, and his sons, in poverty and nakedness. It was in vain that the emperor sought everywhere for the knight, for not the slightest trace of him could be found.

At length the unhappy fugitives, covered with such rags as they could obtain, reached the sea-shore, and besought a passage across the waters. The captain of the vessel was captivated with the beauty of Theosbyta, and consented to carry them over. No sooner were they on the further side, than he demanded of them money for their voyage.

“Good master,” said Eustace, “I am poor and destitute, and have no money.”

“Very well,” replied the captain; “thy wife will do as well; I take her as my slave; she will sell for the passage money.”

“With my life only will I part with her,” exclaimed the knight, as his wife clung to him in her distress.

“As you please, master; ho, men! seize the woman, and take her to my cabin; as for the man and his brats, heave them overboard.”

“Leave me, leave me, Eustace,” murmured Theosbyta; “save thyself and our children; I can but die once.”

With many a hard struggle, Eustace consented; he clasped his two boys by their hands, and led them from the ship.

“Ah, my poor children!” he cried; “your poor mother is lost; in a strange land and in the power of a strange lord must she lament her fate.”

A few hours’ travelling brought Eustace and his children to the bank of a broad and rapid river, the water of which ran so deep, that he feared to cross its stream with both his boys at one time; placing one therefore on the bank, under the shade of a bush, he clasped the eldest in his arms and plunged into the river. The stream ran swiftly, and the bottom was treacherous; but at length he reached the further side, and placed Theosbytus on the bank. Again he plunged into the river. The middle of the stream was but fairly gained, when he saw a wolf creep from the wood close to which his younger son was placed, and approach the child. It was all in vain that he shouted, and strove to reach the shore; the wolf seized the child and bore it off, before its father’s eyes. At that moment a loud roar from the other bank startled the bereaved father; he turned, and saw a lion carrying away his eldest son.

“Alas, alas!” exclaimed Eustace, as soon as he had reached the further bank of the river. “Once was I flourishing like a luxuriant tree, but now I am altogether blighted. Military ensigns were around me, and bands of armed men. Now I am alone in the world. My wife, my children are taken from me; the one to slavery, the others to death. O Lord, thou didst warn me that I must endure the perils of Job, are not these worse than that holy man’s? In his greatest misery he had a couch whereon to rest his wearied limbs, and friends to compassionate him in his misfortunes. His wife, too, remained to him—mine is gone from me: place a bridle on my lips, lest I utter foolishness, and stand up against thee, O my God.”

His heart relieved by these passionate expressions, the knight continued his travel; after many days of want and fatigue, he reached a far-off village, where he abode with one of the villagers as his hired servant. For fifteen years he served his master faithfully, and at his death he succeeded to his cottage and his land.

Trajan still lived, but his fortunes did not prosper; his enemies became daily stronger and stronger, for Placidus no longer directed the movements of the imperial army, or urged on the soldiers, by his example, to deeds of valor against the enemy. Often and often did the emperor think of his lost commander, and ceaseless were his endeavors to discover the place of his concealment.

Eustace was working in his fields about this time, little thinking of Trajan, or of Rome, when two men drew near, and after observing him for some time, and communing with each other, accosted the knight.

“Friend,” said one of the men, “dost know in these parts a knight named Placidus and his two sons?”

The heart of Eustace was sore tried, when he saw the emissaries of Trajan. The sight of them recalled his previous honors in the world, and he still felt a lingering wish to retrace his steps. “Nay,” he thought, “were I not alone, it were well to return; but for a solitary, this place is best.” Then said he to the two men:

“There is no one about here, good sirs, of the name you ask after.”

“It is but a fool’s errand we are on, master, I fear,” said the man; “we have travelled far and near after our old general, but no one knows aught of him.”

“It is years since he left Rome, friends, is it not?” rejoined Eustace.

“Fifteen years and more; but come, comrade, we must go onwards.”

“Nay, sirs, come to my poor abode; what I have is at your service.”

The emissaries of Trajan gladly acceded to Eustace’s request. The homely repast was soon placed on the board, and the men sat down to refresh themselves, while Eustace waited upon them. Again the thoughts of his old home came thickly upon him, and he could not restrain his tears. He left the room where his guests were, bathed his face with water, and returned to wait on the two men.

“I have a strange presentiment,” remarked one of the men during Eustace’s absence, “that our good host is even he whom we search after. Marked you not how he hesitated when we first addressed him?”

“Ay, and even now he has left us with his eyes red with suppressed tears.”

“Let us try the last test, the sabre mark on his head, which he received in the passage of the Danube, when he struck down the northern champion.”

As soon as Eustace returned the soldiers examined his head, and finding the wished-for mark, embraced their old general; the neighbors, too, came in, and the exploits of Eustace were soon in the mouths of the villagers.

For fifteen days they journeyed towards Rome, Eustace and his two guides; as they neared the imperial capital, the emperor came out to meet his old commander. Eustace would have fallen at his master’s feet, but Trajan forbade him; and side by side, amid the congratulations and applauses of the people, the emperor and his long-lost servant entered Rome.

The return of Eustace inspired the people with confidence; thousands hurried from every village to volunteer as soldiers, and his only difficulty was to select who should be rejected. One contingent from a far-off village arrested his attention; it was headed by two youths of wonderful likeness the one to the other, and apparently within a year of the same age. They were tall in stature, of commanding features, and their selection as leaders, by their comrades, did justice to their attainments and the superiority of their manners. Pleased with the youths, Eustace placed them in the van of his army, and began his march against the invaders, who had reached within a few miles of the coast whereon he had disembarked from the ship of the barbarous captain.

Pitching his camp within sight of that of the enemy, the commander billeted the best of his troops in a small village that formed the rear of his position. A widow lady, of but few years, but sorely worn with grief, received the two youths into her house. About the mid-day meal, the youths conversed the one with the other of their early life.

“Of what I was when a child,” said the elder, “I know only this, that my father carried me over a broad river, and laid me under a bush whilst he returned to fetch my brother; but whilst he was gone a lion came, seized me by the clothes, and bore me into a wood hard by. My mother we lost on our journey nigh to a great sea, where she remained with a cruel captain who had seized her for his slave. As I was carried away by the lion, methought a wolf seized on my brother, whom my father had left on the other bank. The lion soon dropped me, for men with loud cries and stones pursued him and drove him from me. Then did they take me to the village where we have lived together so long.”

“My brother, O my brother!” exclaimed the other youth, hardly able to restrain his emotions during the recital, “I am he whom the wolf carried off, saved from his jaws by the shepherds, as thou wast from the jaws of the lion.”

The widow had listened to the wonderful story of the two young men. Much she marvelled at their preservation; on the morrow she sought the commander of the imperial forces; she found him in his tent; his officers were around him, and the two young men stood within the circle. The widow craved permission to return to her own country.

“Sir,” she said, “I am a stranger in these parts; fifteen years have passed since I left Rome with my husband, once high in power, and rich, but then poor and in misery; we reached yonder sea, our two sons were with us, we crossed in a shipman’s boat, but when we arrived on this side he demanded money of my husband, and when he had it not to give him he seized on me and carried me into slavery. Years lived I beneath his roof in sorrow and in pain; but it was in vain that he sought to do me evil, for God preserved me from his devices. At length my master died, and I became free; since then I have labored honestly, and would now return to Rome, if, perchance, I may find my husband and my children.”

“Theosbyta!” said the general, in a low voice, raising his helmet as he spoke.

“Eustace! my husband!”

The general raised his fainting wife, and kissed her gently on her forehead. “Our sons, Theosbyta, we shall see no more; a lion and a wolf carried them off before mine eyes, as we crossed the river not many leagues from hence.”

“Father! our father!” said the two youths, as they knelt before the general.

“Nay, doubt not, Eustace,” said his wife, “last night I overheard the tale of their adventures; this is he whom the lion took; this one did the shepherds rescue from the jaws of the wolf.”

The tale was soon retold, and Eustace convinced that he had recovered in one day his wife and his sons. Then loud blew the trumpets through the camp, and cheer upon cheer rang from the good soldiers, when their general came from his tent, leading his long-lost wife, and supported on either side by his sons. The enthusiasm aided them in obtaining the victory over the enemy. Every one loved their general, and rejoiced in his joy; and that day they fought for their home, their emperor, and their commander.

Trajan lived not to welcome home his honored general; his successor, however, spared not to receive Eustace with the honors his achievements deserved. The banquet-hall was gorgeous with ornaments; and the banquet replete with delicacies and curiosities. On the emperor’s right hand sat Eustace, and his sons occupied no mean place in the banquet-hall.

“To-morrow,” said the emperor, “we will sacrifice to the great gods of war, and offer our thanks for this thy victory.”

“As my lord pleases,” said Eustace; “one thing I pray, that my lord will not regard my absence from the temple as an intentional slight on his royal person.”

“Absence, sir!” exclaimed the emperor; “I command your attendance; see that you and yours are before the altar of Mars at noon to-morrow; thou shalt offer there with thine own hands.”

“I will cut off the hand that so offends,” replied Eustace.

“Ah! a Christian—be it so—sacrifice or die!”

“Death then, my lord; I worship Christ, not idols.”

“Let him save thee from the lions’ mouths,” exclaimed the impious emperor. “Ho, guards! this Christian and his sons to the beasts’ den; come, my guests, to the arena.”

“And me to my lord,” said Theosbyta, advancing from the lower part of the hall.

“As thou wilt: come, sirs; our lions will be well fed.”

The party reached the amphitheatre; it was crowded with spectators. Rumor had soon carried abroad the tidings that the triumphant general was to die by the lion’s mouth, for his Christianity. Some pitied him for what they called his folly: “What, die for a little incense thrown on the fire!” Others gloried in his expected death, for they hated the new faith. A few in secret prayed to God, to give their brother strength to undergo his fearful martyrdom, for they were Christians.

Eustace stood in the arena; his wife knelt by his side, his sons stood before him to meet the lion’s first bound. The crowd grew impatient—a sudden silence; a sound as of revolving hinges, and then a sullen roar, as with a bound the lion sprang into the centre of the amphitheatre. One look he cast on the youths; and then he bowed his head, crept to their feet and licked them; another, and another, was let loose; but the old lion kept guard over the family, and fought with the other lions, and drove them back to their dens.

“It is enough,” said the emperor, “he has a charm against the teeth of beasts; we will test his powers against the heat of fire; prepare the brazen ox.”

A fire was lighted beneath the animal, a vast hollow frame that represented an ox, and into the belly of which the victims were introduced through a door in the right side. As soon as it was heated to its utmost heat, the executioners hastened to throw their victims in; Eustace forbade them, and then clasping his wife in his arms, and followed by his sons, he moved slowly up the ladder that led to the horrid cell, and entered the belly of the brazen ox calmly and without fear.

For three days the fire was kept burning beneath the creature. On the third evening the beast was opened; within lay Eustace, his wife, and his sons, as it were in a deep and placid sleep. Not a hair of their heads was burnt, nor was the smell of fire upon their persons.

So died they all: the father, the wife, and the children. The people buried them with honor, and remembered with sorrow the martyrdom of the Christian general.

“The scene of the conversion,” said Thompson, “recalls to my mind Doddridge’s account of Colonel Gardiner, converted from his licentious life by an almost similar vision of our Saviour on the cross, and by an address not less effective than the words heard by the Eustace of your tale.”

“Few of my old monk’s tales are more true, in their leading features,” said Herbert, “than this of the trials of Eustace and his family. It has been told more than once as an authentic history, and you will find it alluded to in Butler’s ‘Lives of the Saints,’ where it is stated that a church at Rome was dedicated to the memory of St. Eustachius.”

“Surely the incident of the stag and the cross is very similar to that in the legend of St. Herbert.”

“Almost identical, Thompson,” rejoined Herbert; “in the foreign pictures the two incidents are generally depicted in nearly the same manner.”

“Another curious similarity occurs in the early English romance of Sir Isumbras,” said Lathom. “That knight’s misfortunes came upon him in a very similar manner to poor Eustace’s: the knight, his wife, and his three children wander on their pilgrimage to the Holy Land; she wrapped in his surcoat, his scarlet mantle being divided among his three children. They so reach a river, and two of their children are carried off by a lion and a leopard ; one child, however, and the mother are left: then sings the old poet:

“The king, of course, plays the part of the cruel ship-captain,” said Herbert.

“Yes. Seven days’ hunger drives the knight and his lady to the sultan’s galley, to ask for bread: taken for spies, they are at first driven off, until the noble stature of the knight, and the fair complexion of the wife, ‘bright as a blossom on a tree,’ convince the Saracens that their piteous tale is true. To the knight the sultan offers rank, honors, and wealth, if he will renounce Christianity and fight under the Moslem banners. Sir Isumbras refuses, and renews his petition for bread. Then, continues the poet,

“A decided refusal to complete the bargain,” said Thompson.

“Yet not so taken by the sultan; the money is counted into the knight’s cloak, the lady taken forcible possession of, and Sir Isumbras and his child carried on shore, and beat until hardly able to move, but here we must stop with the early English romance, having already gone beyond its similarity to the old monk’s story. And now I must break off for to-night; I know it is but a short allowance, and shall be compensated for when we next meet.”