The company grouped themselves round the white-headed old man, Myrrha watching him with feverish eyes and feeble hands clasped to her heaving breast. Nothing was heard save his voice and the distant hum of Rome, when suddenly, at the inner door communicating with the catacomb, a knock was heard.
Juventinus rose, went to the door and asked, without opening it—
"Who is there?"
No answer came, but a still gentler knock as of entreaty.
With great precaution Juventinus held the door ajar, shuddered and recoiled. A woman of tall stature came into the columbarium. Long white vestments enveloped her and a veil hid her face. Her gait was that of one recovering from an illness or of a very old woman. With a sudden movement she raised the veil and Juventinus cried—
"My mother!"
Didimus rose, a severe expression on his countenance.
The woman threw herself at the feet of her son and kissed them, grey tresses falling dishevelled over her lean and haggard face, which bore traces of high patrician beauty. Juventinus took the head of his mother between his hands and kissed it.
"Juventinus!" the old man called.
The young man made no response.