"I have come to him, Timokles--even I, the former worshiper of Isis--and he hath not cast me out." "O my mother!" murmured Timokles, overcome by the glad tidings.
"What more can I ask of him than this!" The sun sank, and Heraklas raised for the little company the evening hymn of the early church.

His mother's voice rose clear and sweet, as all sang: "Children, praise the Lord, Praise ye the name of the Lord.

We praise thee, we hymn thee, we bless thee, Because of the greatness of thy glory.

O Lord the King, the Father of Christ, Of the spotless Lamb who taketh away The sin of the world, To thee belongeth praise, To thee belongeth song, To thee belongeth glory, to the God And Father, through the Son, in the Spirit, To the Most Holy, unto ages of ages.

Amen." However long their exile might be, whatever privations they might suffer in this desert place, the little company could sing their praises with gratitude, for now not one voice of their number would be silent.