“She does not love me,” cried Agellius; “no, she has given me no reason to think so. I am sure she does not. She’s nothing to me. That cannot be the reason of her conduct. I have no power over her; I could not persuade her. What, what does all this mean? and I shut up here?” and he began walking about the little room, as if such locomotion tended to bring him out of it.

“Well,” answered Jucundus, “it is easy to ascertain. I suppose you could be let out to see her.”

But he was going on too fast; Agellius did not attend to him. “Poor, sweet Callista,” he exclaimed, “she’s innocent, she’s innocent; I mean she’s not a Christian. Ah!” he screamed out in great agony, as the whole state of the case unrolled itself to his apprehension, “she will die though not a Christian; she will die without faith, without love; she will die in her sins. She will die, done to death by false report of accepting that, by which alone she could be carried safely through death unto life. O my Lord, spare me!” and he sank upon the ground in a collapse of misery.

Jucundus was touched, and still more alarmed. “Come, come, my boy,” he said, “you will rouse the whole neighbourhood. Give over; be a man; all will be right. If she’s not a Christian (and she’s not), she shall not die a Christian’s death; something will turn up. She’s not in any hole at all, but in a decent lodging. And you shall see her, and console her, and all will be right.”

“Yes, I will see her,” said Agellius, in a sort of musing manner; “she is either a Christian, or she is not. If she is a Christian …” and his voice faltered; “but if she is not, she shall live till she is.”

“Well said!” answered Jucundus, “till she is. She shall live till she is. Yes, I can get you to see her. You shall bring her out of prison; a smile, a whisper from you, and all her fretfulness and ill-humour will vanish, like a mist before the powerful burning sun. And we shall all be as happy as the immortal gods.”