“You mistake, brother,” answered Baudillas, modestly. “In one thing are you right—I am not of the stuff out of which martyrs and confessors are fashioned. But I betrayed no one. Not that there is any merit due to me for that. I was in such a dire and paralyzing fright that I could not speak.”
“How then come you here?”
“As we read that the Lord sent His angel to deliver Peter from prison, so has it been with me.”
“You lie!” said Marcianus angrily. “No miracle was wrought for you—for such as you who shiver and quake and lose power of speech! Bah! Come, give me a more rational explanation of your escape.”
“My slave was the angel who delivered me.”
“So you ran away! Could not endure martyr[pg 226]dom, saw the crown shining, and turned tail and used your legs. I can well believe it. Coward! Unworthy of the name of a Christian, undeserving of the cross marked on thy brow, unbecoming of the ministry.”
“I know that surely enough,” said Baudillas; “I am of timorous stuff, and from childhood feared pain. But I have not denied Christ.”
“What has brought you here?” asked Marcianus curtly.
“I have come to thee for counsel.”
“The counsel I give thou wilt not take. What saith the Scripture: ‘He that putteth his hand to the plough and turneth back is not fit for the kingdom of God.’ Thou wast called to a glorious confession, and looked back and ran away.”