And she passed on, singing blithely. But Sebastian begged her to stay one moment.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE WOLF IN THE FOLD.

AFTER the adventures of the night, our youths had not much time for rest. Long before daybreak the Christians had to be up, and assemble at their several titles, so as to disperse before day. It was to be their last meeting there. The oratories were to be closed, and divine worship had to begin, from that day, in the subterranean churches of the cemeteries. It could not, indeed, be expected that all would be able to travel with safety, even on the Sunday, some miles beyond the gate.[145] A great privilege was, consequently, granted to the faithful, at such times of trouble, that of preserving the blessed Eucharist in their houses, and communicating themselves privately in the morning, “before taking other food,” as Tertullian expresses it.[146]

The faithful felt, not as sheep going to the slaughter, not as criminals preparing for execution, but as soldiers arming for fight. Their weapons, their food, their strength, their courage, were all to be found in their Lord’s table. Even the lukewarm and the timid gathered fresh spirit from the bread of life. In churches, as yet may be seen in the cemeteries, were chairs placed for the penitentiaries, before whom the sinner knelt, and confessed his sins, and received absolution. In moments like this the penitential code was relaxed, and the terms of public expiation shortened; and the whole night had been occupied by the zealous clergy in preparing their flocks for, to many, their last public communion on earth.

We need not remind our readers that the office then performed was essentially, and in many details, the same as they daily witness at the Catholic altar. Not only was it considered, as now, to be the Sacrifice of Our Lord’s Body and Blood, not only were the oblation, the consecration, the communion alike, but many of the prayers were identical; so that the Catholic hearing them recited, and still more the priest reciting them, in the same language as the Roman Church of the Catacombs spoke, may feel himself in active and living communion with the martyrs who celebrated, and the martyrs who assisted at, those sublime mysteries.

On the occasion which we are describing, when the time came for giving the kiss of peace—a genuine embrace of brotherly love—sobs could be heard and bursts of tears; for it was to many a parting salutation. Many a youth clung to his father’s neck, scarcely knowing whether that day might not sever them, till they waved their palm-branches together in heaven. And how would mothers press their daughters to their bosom, in the fervor of that new love which fear of long separation enkindled! Then came the communion, more solemn than usual, more devout, more hushed to stillness. “The Body of Our Lord Jesus Christ,” said the priest to each, as he offered him the sacred food. “Amen,” replied the receiver, with thrilling accents of faith and love. Then extending in his hand an orarium, or white linen cloth, he received in it a provision of the Bread of Life, sufficient to last him till some future feast. This was most carefully and

reverently folded, and laid in the bosom, wrapped up often in another and more precious covering, or even placed in a gold locket.[147] It was now that, for the first time, poor Syra regretted the loss of her rich embroidered scarf, which would long before have been given to the poor, had she not studiously reserved it for such an occasion, and such a use. Nor had her mistress been able to prevail upon her to accept any objects of value, without a stipulation that she might dispose of them as she liked, that was in charitable gifts.

The various assemblies had broken up before the discovery of the violated edict. But they may rather be said to have adjourned to the cemeteries. The frequent meetings of Torquatus with his two heathen confederates in the baths of Caracalla had been narrowly watched by the capsarius and his wife, as we have already remarked; and Victoria had overheard the plot to make an inroad into the cemetery of Callistus on the day after publication. The Christians, therefore, considered themselves safer the first day, and took advantage of the circumstance to inaugurate, by solemn offices, the churches of the catacombs, which, after some years’ disuse, had been put into good repair and order by the fossores, had been in some places repainted, and furnished with all requisites for divine worship.

But Corvinus, after getting over his first dismay, and having as speedily as possible another, though not so grand, a copy of the edict affixed, began better to see the dismal probabilities of serious consequences from the wrath of his imperial master. The Dacian was right: he would have to answer for the loss. He felt it necessary to do something that very day, which might wipe off the disgrace he had incurred, before again meeting the emperor’s look. He determined to anticipate the attack on the cemetery, intended for the following day.

He repaired, therefore, while it was still early, to the baths, where Fulvius, ever jealously watchful over Torquatus, kept him in expectation of Corvinus’s coming to hold council with them. The worthy trio concerted their plans. Corvinus, guided by the reluctant apostate, at the head of a chosen band of soldiers who were at his disposal, had to make an incursion into the cemetery of Callistus, and drive, or drag, thence the clergy and principal Christians; while Fulvius, remaining outside with another company, would intercept them and cut off all retreat, securing the most important prizes, and especially the Pontiff and superior clergy, whom his visit to the ordination would enable him to recognize. This was his plan. “Let fools,” he said to himself, “act the part of ferrets in the warren; I will be the sportsman outside.”

In the meantime Victoria overheard sufficient to make her very busy dusting and cleaning, in the retired room where they were consulting, without appearing to listen. She told all to Cucumio; and he, after much scratching of his head, hit upon a notable plan for conveying the discovered information to the proper quarter.

Sebastian, after his early attendance on divine worship, unable, from his duties at the palace to do more, had proceeded, according to almost universal custom, to the baths, to invigorate his limbs by their healthy refreshment, and also to remove from himself the suspicion, which his absence on that morning might have excited. While he was thus engaged, the old capsararius, as he had had himself rattlingly called in his ante-posthumous inscription, wrote on a slip of parchment all that his wife had heard about the intention of an immediate assault, and of getting possession of the holy Pontiff’s person. This he fastened with a pin or needle to the inside of Sebastian’s tunic, of which he had charge, as he durst not speak to him in the presence of others.

The officer, after his bath, went into the hall where the events of the morning were being discussed, and where Fulvius was waiting, till Corvinus should tell him that all was ready. Upon going out, disgusted, he felt himself, as he walked, pricked by something on his chest: he examined his garments, and found the paper. It was written in about as elegant a latinity as Cucumio’s epitaph, but he made it out sufficiently to consider it necessary for him to turn his steps towards the Via Appia, instead of the Palatine, and convey the important information to the Christians assembled in the cemetery.

Having, however, found a fleeter and surer messenger than himself, in the poor blind girl, who would not attract the same attention, he stopped her, gave her the note, after adding a few words to it, with the pen and ink which he carried, and bade her bear it, as speedily as possible, to its destination. But, in fact, he had hardly left the baths, when Fulvius received information that Corvinus and his troop were by that time hastening across the fields, so as to avoid suspicion, towards the appointed spot. He mounted his horse immediately, and went along the high-road; while the Christian soldier, in a by-way, was instructing his blind messenger.

When we accompanied Diogenes and his party through the catacombs, we stopped short of the subterranean church, because Severus would not let it be betrayed to Torquatus. In this the Christian congregation was now assembled, under its chief pastor. It was constructed on the principle common to all such excavations, for we can hardly call them edifices.

The reader may imagine two of the cubicula or chambers, which we have before described, placed one on each side of a gallery or passage, so that their doors, or rather wide entrances, are opposite one another. At the end of one will be found an arcosolium or altar-tomb: and the probable conjecture is, that in this division the men, under charge of the ostiarii,[148] and in the other the women, under the care of the deaconesses, were assembled. This division of the sexes at divine worship was a matter of jealous discipline in the early Church.

Often these subterranean churches were not devoid of architectural decoration. The walls, especially near the altar, were plastered and painted, and half columns, with their bases and capitals, not ungracefully cut out of the sandstone, divided

the different parts or ornamented the entrances. In one instance, indeed in the chief basilica yet discovered in the cemetery of Callistus, there is a chamber without any altar, communicating with the church by means of a funnel-shaped opening, piercing the earthen wall, here some twelve feet thick, and entering the chamber, which is at a lower level, at the height of five or six feet, in a slanting direction; so that all that was spoken in the church could be heard, yet nothing that was done there could be seen, by those assembled in the chamber. This is very naturally supposed to have been the place reserved for the class of public penitents called audientes or hearers, and for the catechumens, not yet initiated by baptism.

The basilica, in which the Christians were assembled, when Sebastian sent his message, was like the one discovered in the cemetery of St. Agnes. Each of the two divisions was double, that is, consisted of two large chambers, slightly separated by half-columns, in what we may call the women’s church, and by flat pilasters in the men’s, one of these surfaces having in it a small niche for an image or lamp. But the most remarkable feature of this basilica is a further prolongation of the structure, so as to give it a chancel or presbytery. This is about the size of half each other division, from which it is separated by two columns against the wall, as well as by its lesser height, after the manner of modern chancels. For while each portion of each division has first a lofty-arched tomb in its wall, and four or five tiers of graves above it, the elevation of the chancel is not much greater than that of those arcosolia or altar-tombs. At the end of the chancel, against the middle of the wall, is a chair with back and arms cut out of the solid stone, and from each side proceeds a stone bench, which thus occupies the end and two sides of the chancel. As the table of the arched-tomb behind the chair is higher than the back of the throne, and as this is immovable, it is clear that the divine mysteries could not have been celebrated upon it. A portable altar must, therefore, have been placed before the throne, in an isolated position in the middle of the sanctuary: and this, tradition tell us, was the wooden altar of St. Peter.

We have thus the exact arrangements to be found in the churches built after the peace, and yet to be seen in all the ancient basilicas in Rome—the episcopal chair in the centre of the apse, the presbytery or seat for the clergy on either hand, and the altar between the throne and the people. The early Christians thus anticipated underground, or rather gave the principles which directed, the forms of ecclesiastical architecture.

It was in such a basilica, then, that we are to imagine the faithful assembled, when Corvinus and his satellites arrived at the entrance of the cemetery. This was the way which Torquatus knew, leading down by steps from a half-ruinous building, choked up with faggots. They found the coast clear, and immediately made their arrangements. Fulvius, with one body of ten or twelve men, lurked to guard the entrance, and seize all who attempted to come out or go in. Corvinus, with Torquatus and a smaller body of eight, prepared to descend.

“I don’t like this underground work,” said an old, grey-bearded legionary. “I am a soldier, and not a rat-catcher. Bring me my man into the light of day, and I will fight him hand to hand, and foot to foot; but I have no love for being stifled or poisoned, like vermin in a drain.”

This speech found favor with the soldiers. One said, “There may be hundreds of these skulking Christians down there, and we are little more than half a dozen.”

“This is not the sort of work we receive our pay for,” added another.

“It’s their sorceries I care for,” continued a third, “and not their valor.”

It required all the eloquence of Fulvius to screw up their resolution. He assured them there was nothing to fear; that the cowardly Christians would run before them like hares, and that they would find more gold and silver in the church than a year’s pay would give them. Thus encouraged, they went groping down to the bottom of the stairs. They could distinguish lamps at intervals, stretching into the gloomy length before them.

“Hush!” said one, “listen to that voice!”

From far away its accents came, softened by distance, but they were the notes of a fresh youthful voice, that quailed not with fear; so clear, that the very words could be caught, as it intoned the following verses:

“Dominus illuminatio mea, et salus mea; quem timebo?

“Dominus protector vitæ meæ; a quo trepidabo?”[149]

Then came a full chorus of voices, singing, like the sound of many waters:

“Dum appropriant super me nocentes, ut edant carnes meas; qui tribulant me, inimici mei, ipsi infirmati sunt et ceciderunt.”[150]

A mixture of shame and anger seized on the assailants as they heard these words of calm confidence and defiance. The single voice again sang forth, but in apparently fainter accents:

“Si consistant adversum me castra, non timebit cor meum.”[151]

“I thought I knew that voice,” muttered Corvinus. “I ought to know it out of a thousand. It is that of my bane, the cause of all last night’s curse and this day’s trouble. It is that of Pancratius, who pulled down the edict. On, on, my men; any reward for him, dead or alive!”

“But, stop,” said one, “let us light our torches.”

“Hark!” said a second, while they were engaged in this operation; “what is that strange noise, as if of scratching and hammering at a distance? I have heard it for some time.”

“And, look!” added a third; “the distant lights have disappeared, and the music has ceased. We are certainly discovered.”

“No danger,” said Torquatus, putting on a boldness which he did not feel. “That noise only comes from those old moles, Diogenes and his sons, busy preparing graves for the Christians we shall seize.”

Torquatus had in vain advised the troop not to bring torches, but to provide themselves with such lamps as we see Diogenes represented carrying, in his picture, or waxen tapers, which he had brought for himself; but the men swore they would not go down without plenty of light, and such means for it as could not be put out by a draught of wind, or a stroke on the arm. The effects were soon obvious. As they advanced, silently and cautiously, along the low narrow gallery, the resinous torches crackled and hissed with a fierce glare, which heated and annoyed them; while a volume of thick pitchy smoke from each rolled downwards on to the bearers from the roof, half stifled them, and made a dense atmosphere of cloud around themselves, which effectually dimmed their light. Torquatus kept at the head of the party, counting every turning right and left, as he had noted them; though he found every mark which he had made carefully removed. He was staggered and baulked, when, after having counted little more than half the proper number, he found the road completely blocked up.

The fact was, that keener eyes than he was aware of had been on the look-out. Severus had never relaxed his watchfulness, determined not to be surprised. He was near the entrance to the cemetery below, when the soldiers reached it above; and he ran forward at once to the place where the sand had been prepared for closing the road; near which his brother and several other stout workmen were stationed, in case of danger. In a moment, with that silence and rapidity to which they were trained, they set to work lustily, shovelling the sand across the narrow and low corridor from each side, while well-directed blows of the pick brought from the low roof behind, huge flakes of sandstone, which closed up the opening. Behind this barrier they stood, hardly suppressing a laugh as they heard their enemies through its loose separation. Their work it was which had been heard, and which had screened off the lights, and deadened the song.

Torquatus’s perplexity was not diminished by the volley of oaths and imprecations, and the threats of violence which were showered upon him, for a fool or a traitor. “Stay one moment, I entreat you,” he said. “It is possible I have mistaken my reckoning. I know the right turn by a remarkable tomb a few yards within it; I will just step into one or two of the last corridors, and see.”

With these words, he ran back to the next gallery on the left, advanced a few paces, and totally disappeared.

Though his companions had followed him to the very mouth of the gallery, they could not see how this happened. It appeared like witchcraft, in which they were quite ready to believe. His light and himself seemed to have vanished at once. “We will have no more of this work,” they said; “either Torquatus is a traitor, or he has been carried off by magic.” Worried, heated in the close atmosphere, almost inflamed by their lights, begrimed, blinded, and choked by the pitchy smoke, crest-fallen and disheartened, they turned back; and since their road led straight to the entrance, they flung away their blazing torches into the side galleries, one here and one there, as they passed by, to get rid of them. When they looked back, it seemed as if a triumphal illumination was kindling up the very atmosphere of the gloomy corridor. From the mouths of the various caverns came forth a fiery light which turned the dull sandstone into a bright crimson; while the volumes of smoke above, hung like amber clouds along the whole gallery. The sealed tombs, receiving the unusual reflection on their yellow tiles, or marble slabs, appeared covered with golden or silver plates, set in the red damask of the walls. It looked like a homage paid to martyrdom, by the very furies of heathenism, on the first day of persecution. The torches which they had kindled to destroy, only served to shed brightness on monuments of that virtue which had never failed to save the Church.

But before these foiled hounds with drooping heads had reached the entrance, they recoiled before the sight of a singular apparition. At first they thought they had caught a glimpse of daylight; but they soon perceived it was the glimmering of a lamp. This was held steadily by an upright, immovable figure, which thus received its light upon itself. It was clothed in a dark dress, so as to resemble one of those bronze statues, which have the head and extremities of white marble, and startle one, when first seen; so like are they to living forms.

“Who can it be? What is it?” the men whispered to one another.

“A sorceress,” replied one.

“The genius loci,”[152] observed another.

“A spirit,” suggested a third.

Still, as they approached stealthily towards it, it did not appear conscious of their presence: “there was no speculation in its eyes;” it remained unmoved and unscared. At length, two got sufficiently near to seize the figure by its arms.

“Who are you?” asked Corvinus, in a rage.

“A Christian,” answered Cæcilia, with her usual cheerful gentleness.

“Bring her along,” he commanded; “some one at least shall pay for our disappointment.”

CHAPTER XVII.

THE FIRST FLOWER.

CÆCILIA, already forewarned, had approached the cemetery by a different, but neighboring entrance. No sooner had she descended than she snuffed the strong odor of the torches. “This is none of our incense, I know,” she said to herself; “the enemy is already within.” She hastened therefore to the place of assembly and delivered Sebastian’s note; adding also what she had observed. It warned them to disperse and seek the shelter of the inner and lower galleries; and begged of the Pontiff not to leave till he should send for him, as his person was particularly sought for.

Pancratius urged the blind messenger to save herself too. “No,” she replied, “my office is to watch the door, and guide the faithful safe.”

“But the enemy may seize you.”

“No matter,” she answered, laughing; “my being taken may save much worthier lives. Give me a lamp, Pancratius.”

“Why, you cannot see by it,” observed he, smiling.

“True, but others can.”

“They may be your enemies.”

“Even so,” she answered, “I do not wish to be taken in the dark. If my Bridegroom come to me in the night of this cemetery, must He not find me with my lamp trimmed?”

Off she started, reached her post, and hearing no noise except that of quiet footsteps, she thought they were those of friends, and held up her lamp to guide them.

When the party came forth, with their only captive, Fulvius was perfectly furious. It was worse than a total failure: it was ridiculous—a poor mouse come out of the bowels of the earth. He rallied Corvinus till the wretch winced and foamed; then suddenly he asked, “And where is Torquatus?” He heard the account of his sudden disappearance, told in as many ways as the Dacian guard’s adventure: but it annoyed him greatly. He had no doubt whatever, in his own mind, that he had been duped by his supposed victim, who had escaped into the unsearchable mazes of the cemetery. If so, this captive would know, and he determined to question her. He stood before her, therefore, put on his most searching and awful look, and said to her sternly, “Look at me, woman, and tell me the truth.”

“I must tell you the truth without looking at you, sir,” answered the poor girl, with her cheerfullest smile and softest voice; “do you not see that I am blind?”

“Blind!” all exclaimed at once, as they crowded to look at her. But over the features of Fulvius there passed the slightest possible emotion, just as much as the wave that runs, pursued by a playful breeze, over the ripe meadow. A knowledge had flashed into his mind, a clue had fallen into his hand.

“It will be ridiculous,” he said, “for twenty soldiers to march through the city, guarding a blind girl. Return to your quarters, and I will see you are well rewarded. You, Corvinus, take my horse, and go before to your father, and tell him all, I will follow in a carriage with the captive.”

“No treachery, Fulvius,” he said, vexed and mortified. “Mind you bring her. The day must not pass without a sacrifice.”

“Do not fear,” was the reply.

Fulvius, indeed, was pondering whether, having lost one spy, he should not try to make another. But the placid gentleness of the poor beggar perplexed him more than the boisterous zeal of the gamester, and her sightless orbs defied him more than the restless roll of the toper’s. Still, the first thought that had struck him he could yet pursue. When alone in a carriage with her, he assumed a soothing tone, and addressed her. He knew she had not overheard the last dialogue.

“My poor girl,” he said, “how long have you been blind?”

“All my life,” she replied.

“What is your history? Whence do you come?”

“I have no history. My parents were poor, and brought me to Rome when I was four years old, as they came to pray, in discharge of a vow made for my life in early sickness, to the blessed martyrs Chrysanthus and Daria. They left me in charge of a pious lame woman, at the door of the title of Fasciola, while they went to their devotions. It was on that memorable day, when many Christians were buried at their tomb, by earth and stones cast down upon them. My parents had the happiness to be of the number.”

“And how have you lived since?”

“God became my only Father then, and His Catholic Church my mother. The one feeds the birds of the air, the other nurses the weaklings of the flock. I have never wanted for any thing since.”

“But you can walk about the streets freely, and without fear, as well as if you saw.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have seen you. Do you remember very early one morning in the autumn, leading a poor lame man along the Vicus Patricius?”

She blushed and remained silent. Could he have seen her put into the poor old man’s purse her own share of the alms?

“You have owned yourself a Christian?” he asked negligently.

“Oh, yes! how could I deny it?”

“Then that meeting was a Christian meeting?”

“Certainly; what else could it be?”

He wanted no more; his suspicions were verified. Agnes, about whom Torquatus had been able or willing to tell him nothing, was certainly a Christian. His game was made. She must yield, or he would be avenged.

After a pause, looking at her steadfastly, he said, “Do you know whither you are going?”

“Before the judge of earth, I suppose, who will send me to my Spouse in heaven.”

“And so calmly?” he asked in surprise; for he could see no token from the soul to the countenance, but a smile.

“So joyfully rather,” was her brief reply.

Having got all that he desired, he consigned his prisoner to Corvinus at the gates of the Æmilian basilica, and left her to her fate. It had been a cold and drizzling day like the preceding evening. The weather, and the incident of the night, had kept down all enthusiasm; and while the prefect had been compelled to sit in-doors, where no great crowd could collect, as hours had passed away without any arrest, trial, or tidings, most of the curious had left, and only a few more persevering remained, past the hour of afternoon recreation in the public gardens. But just before the captive arrived, a fresh knot of spectators came in, and stood near one of the side-doors, from which they could see all.

As Corvinus had prepared his father for what he was to expect, Tertullus, moved with some compassion, and imagining there could be little difficulty in overcoming the obstinacy of a poor, ignorant, blind beggar, requested the spectators to remain perfectly still, that he might try his persuasion on her, alone, as she would imagine, with him; and he threatened heavy penalties on any one who should presume to break the silence.

It was as he had calculated. Cæcilia knew not that any one else was there, as the prefect thus kindly addressed her:

“What is thy name, child?”

“Cæcilia.”

“It is a noble name; hast thou it from thy family?”

“No; I am not noble; except because my parents, though poor, died for Christ. As I am blind, those who took care of me called me Cæca,[153] and then, out of kindness, softened it into Cæcilia.”

“But now, give up all this folly of the Christians, who have kept thee only poor and blind. Honor the decrees of the divine emperors, and offer sacrifice to the gods; and thou shalt have riches, and fine clothes, and good fare; and the best physicians shall try to restore thee thy sight.”

“You must have better motives to propose to me than these; for the very things for which I most thank God and His Divine Son, are those which you would have me put away.”

“How dost thou mean?”

“I thank God that I am poor and meanly clad, and fare not daintily; because by all these things I am the more like Jesus Christ, my only Spouse.”

“Foolish girl!” interrupted the judge, losing patience a little; “hast thou learnt all these silly delusions already? at least thou canst not thank thy God that He has made thee sightless.”

“For that, more than all the rest, I thank Him daily and hourly with all my heart.”

“How so? dost thou think it a blessing never to have seen the face of a human being, or the sun, or the earth? What strange fancies are these?”

“They are not so, most noble sir. For in the midst of what you call darkness, I see a spot of what I must call light, it contrasts so strongly with all around. It is to me what the sun is to you, which I know to be local from the varying direction of its rays. And this object looks upon me as with a countenance of intensest beauty, and smiles upon me ever. And I know it to be that of Him whom I love with undivided affection. I would not for the world have its splendor dimmed by a brighter sun, nor its wondrous loveliness confounded with the diversities of others’ features, nor my gaze on it drawn aside by earthly visions. I love Him too much not to wish to see Him always alone.”

“Come, come! let me have no more of this silly prattle. Obey the emperors at once, or I must try what a little pain will do. That will soon tame thee.”

“Pain?” she echoed innocently.

“Yes, pain. Hast thou never felt it? hast thou never been hurt by any one in thy life?”

“Oh, no! Christians never hurt one another.”

The rack was standing, as usual, before him; and he made a sign to Catulus to place her upon it. The executioner pushed her back on it by her arms; and as she made no resistance, she was easily laid extended on its wooden couch. The loops of the ever-ready ropes were in a moment passed round her ankles, and arms drawn over the head. The poor sightless girl saw not who did all this; she knew not but it might be the same person who had been conversing with her. If there had been silence hitherto, men now held their very breath; while Cæcilia’s lips moved in earnest prayer.

“Once more, before proceeding further, I call on thee to sacrifice to the gods, and escape cruel torments,” said the judge, with a sterner voice.

“Neither torments nor death,” firmly replied the victim tied to the altar, “shall separate me from the love of Christ. I can offer up no sacrifice but to the one living God: and its ready oblation is myself.”

The prefect made a signal to the executioner, and he gave one rapid whirl to the two wheels of the rack, round the windlasses of which the ropes were wound; and the limbs of the maiden were stretched with a sudden jerk, which, though not enough to wrench them from their sockets, as a further turn would have done, sufficed to inflict an excruciating, or more truly, a racking pain, through all her frame. Far more grievous was this, from the preparation and the cause of it being unseen, and from that additional suffering which darkness inflicts. A quivering of her features and a sudden paleness alone gave evidence of her torture.

“Ha! ha!” the judge exclaimed, “thou feelest that? Come, let it suffice; obey, and thou shalt be freed.”

She seemed to take no heed of his words, but gave vent to her feelings in prayer: “I thank Thee, O Lord Jesus Christ, that Thou hast made me suffer pain the first time for Thy sake. I have loved Thee in peace; I have loved Thee in comfort; I have loved Thee in joy,—and now in pain I love Thee still more. How much sweeter it is to be like Thee, stretched upon Thy Cross, even than resting upon the hard couch at the poor man’s table!”

“Thou triflest with me,” exclaimed the judge, thoroughly vexed, “and makest light of my lenity. We will try something stronger. Here, Catulus, apply a lighted torch to her sides.”[154]

A thrill of disgust and horror ran through the assembly, which could not help sympathizing with the poor blind creature. A murmur of suppressed indignation broke out from all sides of the hall.

Cæcilia, for the first time, learnt that she was in the midst of a crowd. A crimson glow of modesty rushed into her brow, her face, and neck, just before white as marble. The angry judge checked the rising gush of feeling; and all listened in silence, as she spoke again, with warmer earnestness than before:

“O my dear Lord and Spouse! I have been ever true and faithful to Thee! Let me suffer pain and torture for Thee; but spare me confusion from human eyes. Let me come to Thee at once; not covering my face with my hands in shame when I stand before Thee.”

Another muttering of compassion was heard.

“Catulus!” shouted the baffled judge in fury; “do your duty, sirrah! what are you about, fumbling all day with that torch?”

The executioner advanced, and stretched forth his hand to her robe, to withdraw it for the torture; but he drew back, and, turning to the prefect, exclaimed in softened accents:

“It is too late. She is dead!”

“Dead!” cried out Tertullus; “dead with one turn of the wheel? impossible!”

Catulus gave the rack a turn backwards, and the body remained motionless. It was true; she had passed from the rack to the throne, from the scowl of the judge’s countenance to her Spouse’s welcoming embrace. Had she breathed out her pure soul, as a sweet perfume, in the incense of her prayer? or had her heart been unable to get back its blood, from the intensity of that first virginal blush?[155]

In the stillness of awe and wonder, a clear bold voice cried out, from the group near the door: “Impious tyrant, dost thou not see, that a poor blind Christian hath more power over life and death, than thou or thy cruel masters?”

“What! a third time in twenty-four hours wilt thou dare to cross my path? This time thou shalt not escape.”

These were Corvinus’s words, garnished with a furious imprecation, as he rushed from his father’s side round the enclosure before the tribunal, towards the group. But as he ran blindly on, he struck against an officer of herculean build, who, no doubt quite accidentally, was advancing from it. He reeled, and the soldier caught hold of him, saying:

“You are not hurt, I hope, Corvinus?”

“No, no; let me go, Quadratus, let me go.”

“Where are you running to in such a hurry? can I help you?” asked his captor, still holding him fast.

“Let me loose, I say, or he will be gone.”

“Who will be gone?”

“Pancratius,” answered Corvinus, “who just now insulted my father.”

“Pancratius!” said Quadratus, looking round, and seeing that he had got clear off; “I do not see him.” And he let him go; but it was too late. The youth was safe at Diogenes’s, in the Suburra.

While this scene was going on, the prefect, mortified, ordered Catulus to see the body thrown into the Tiber. But another officer, muffled in his cloak, stepped aside and beckoned to Catulus, who understood the sign, and stretched out his hand to receive a purse held out to him.

“Out of the Porta Capena, at Lucina’s villa, an hour after sunset,” said Sebastian.

“It shall be delivered there safe,” said the executioner.

“Of what do you think did that poor girl die?” asked a spectator from his companion, as they went out.

“Of fright, I fancy,” he replied.

“Of Christian modesty,” interposed a stranger who passed them.