“I think,” said Cæcilius, “I see my messenger; there is some one who has made his way by stealth into the garden, or at least not by the beaten way.”

There was a visitor, as Cæcilius had said; however, it was not his messenger, but Juba, who approached, looking with great curiosity at Cæcilius, and absorbed in the sight. Cæcilius in turn regarded him steadfastly, and then said to Agellius, “It is your brother.”

“What brings you here, Juba?” said the latter.

“I have been away on a distant errand,” said Juba; “and find you have been ill. Is this your nurse?” he eyed him almost sternly, and added, “’Tis a Christian priest.”

“Has Agellius no acquaintance but Christians?” asked Cæcilius.

“Acquaintance! O surely!” answered Juba; “agreeable, innocent, sweet acquaintance of another sort; myself to begin with. My lad,” he continued, “you did not rise to their price, but you did your best.”

“Juba,” said his brother, “if you have any business here, say it, and have done. I am not strong enough to hold any altercation with you.”

“Business!” said Juba, “I can find quite business enough here, if I choose. This is a priest of the Christians. I am sure of it.”

Cæcilius looked at him with such calmness and benevolence, that at length Juba turned away his eyes with something of irritation. He said, “If I am a priest, I am here to claim you as one of my children.”

Juba winced, but said scornfully, “You are mistaken there, father; speak to those who own you. I am a free man.”

“My son,” Cæcilius answered, “you have been under instruction; it is your duty to go forward, not back.”

“What do you know about me?” said Juba; “he has been telling.”

“Your face, your manner, your voice, tells a tale; I need no information from others. I have heard of you years ago; now I see you.”

“What do you see in me?” said Juba.

“I see pride in bodily shape, treading down faith and conviction,” said Cæcilius.

Juba neighed rather than laughed, so fierce and scornful was its expression. “What you slaves call pride,” he said, “I call dignity.”

“You believe in a God, Creator of heaven and earth, as certainly as I do,” said the priest, “but you deliberately set yourself against Him.”

Juba smiled. “I am as free,” he said, “in my place, as He in His.”

“You mean,” answered Cæcilius, “free to do wrong, and free to suffer for it.”

“You may call it wrong, and call it suffering,” replied Juba; “but for me, I do not call wrong what He calls wrong; and if He puts me to pain, it is because He is the stronger.”

The priest stopped awhile; there was no emotion on either side. It was strange to see them so passionless, so antagonistic, like St. Michael and his adversary.