“To the Cross of Christ,” she repeated, “and if we bear it after Him, we shall wear a crown.”
The old priest extended his hand towards Anna as if in blessing, and said—
“And where is that crown, my daughter? It is not to be found in the depths of the forest, where the wolves roar at night, and the dangers of robbers and thieves are all around.”
“Yes,” Anna said, “the crown may be even there. As for me, I am a poor faint-hearted girl, and I can speak with no true courage, as Agatha can, but like a whisper in my soul from heaven I hear the words, ‘The crown is laid up in the heavens for you, who are kept by God’s power through faith.’”
“Our Lord,” Agatha continued, as Anna stopped, “our Lord wore a crown of thorns, that we might wear a crown of jewels. We know in Whom we believe. If those who are seeking us were to break through the thicket yonder, and shed our blood on your altar, yet through death, as Jesus passed, I know that we should pass to our joyful resurrection. And, oh!” exclaimed Agatha, “think you we would give up the precious possession of the love of Christ? Have I not seen its power? Do I not know that it is as the sunshine piercing the deep of the forest at dawn, and bringing life and light to the soul? We may not tarry,” she continued, “for we have to press forward on our journey, but we will pray for you, father, and may our God reward you for your charity towards us, the poor hunted Christians, who nevertheless rejoice in their name.”
The four then moved away, and the thick summer foliage soon hid them from the Druidical priest.
He stood gazing after them like one in a trance, and the young men gathered round him, expecting to hear from his lips some strange, prophetic utterances, or some recital of the past glory of their race. But no words came, and after a few minutes of profound silence the young men departed, one by one leaving their chief still wrapt in his devotions and meditations.
The way through the forest was long and toilsome, and poor Anna often lay trembling by Agatha’s side, listening all night to the howling of the wolves. Amphibalus joined them from time to time, and at last, when the first golden leaf was telling the story of coming autumn in the woods, the whole band was settled in a remote village on the borders of Wales, girt in with mountains, and entirely hidden as they thought, from the eyes of their persecutors.
There were continued additions to their numbers, and we are told that there were a thousand converts baptised by Amphibalus’s hands.
Amphibalus himself was often absent for days together, and boldly preached Christ to the poor native idolaters of the district. Some drank in the good tidings eagerly, like drops of living water, and the little colony throve for a time.