“Then the union of the bread and the fish in one multiplication shows us how, in the Eucharist, Christ becomes the food of all.[107] Opposite, is Moses striking the rock, from which all drank, and which is Christ, our drink as well as our food.”[108]

“Now, at last,” said Torquatus, “we are come to the Good Shepherd.”

“Yes,” continued Severus, “you see Him in the centre of the arcosolium, in His simple tunic and leggings, with a sheep upon His shoulders, the recovered wanderer from the flock. Two more are standing at His sides; the truant ram on His right, the gentle ewe upon His left; the penitent in the post of honor. On each side too, you see a person evidently sent by Him to preach. Both are leaning forward, and addressing sheep not of the fold. One on either side is apparently giving no heed to their words, but browsing quietly on, while one is turning up its eyes and head, looking and listening with eager attention. Rain is falling copiously on them; that is the grace of God. It is not difficult to interpret this picture.”

“But what makes this emblem such a particular favorite?” again pressed Tiburtius.

“We consider this, and similar paintings, to belong chiefly to the time when the Novatian heresy so much plagued the Church,” answered Severus.

“And pray what heresy is that?” asked Torquatus, carelessly; for he thought he was losing time.

“It was, and indeed is, the heresy,” answered Pancratius, “that teaches, that there are sins which the Church has not power to forgive; which are too great for God to pardon.”

Pancratius was not aware of the effect of his words; but Severus, who never took off his eye from Torquatus, saw the blood come and go violently in his countenance.

“Is that a heresy?” asked the traitor, confused.

“Surely a dreadful one,” replied Pancratius, “to limit the mercy and forgiveness of Him, who came to call not the just, but sinners to repentance. The Catholic Church has always held, that a sinner, however dark the dye, however huge the mass of his crimes, on truly repenting, may receive forgiveness, through the penitential remedy left in her hands. And, therefore, she has always so much loved this type of the Good Shepherd, ready to run into the wilderness, to bring back a lost sheep.”

“But suppose,” said Torquatus, evidently moved, “that one who had become a Christian, and received the sacred Gift, were to fall away, and plunge into vice, and—and”—(his voice faltered)—“almost betray his brethren, would not the Church reject such a one from hope?”

“No, no,” answered the youth; “these are the very crimes, which the Novatians insult the Catholics for admitting to pardon. The Church is a mother, with her arms ever open to re-embrace her erring children.”

There was a tear trembling in Torquatus’s eye; his lips quivered with the confession of his guilt, which ascended to them for a moment; but as if a black poisonous drop rose up his throat with it and choked him, he changed in a moment to a hard, obstinate look, bit his lip, and said, with an effort at coolness: “It is certainly a consoling doctrine for those that need it.”

Severus alone observed that a moment of grace had been forfeited, and that some despairing thought had quenched a flash of hope, in that man’s heart. Diogenes and Majus, who had been absent looking at a new place for opening a gallery near, now returned. Torquatus addressed the old master-digger:

“We have now seen the galleries and the chambers; I am anxious to visit the church in which we shall have to assemble.”

The unconscious excavator was going to lead the way, when the inexorable artist interposed.

“I think, father, it is too late for to-day; you know we have got our work to do. These young friends will excuse us, especially as they will see the church in good time, and in better order also, as the holy Pontiff intends to officiate in it.”

They assented; and when they arrived at the point where they had turned off from the first straight gallery to visit the ornamented chamber, Diogenes stopped the party, turned a few steps along an opposite passage, and said:

“If you pursue this corridor, and turn to the right, you come to the church. I have merely brought you here to show you an arcosolium, with a beautiful painting. You here see the Virgin Mother holding her Divine Infant in her arms, while the wise Easterns, here represented as four, though generally we only reckon three, are adoring Him.”[109]

All admired the painting; but poor Severus was much chagrined at seeing how his good father had unwittingly supplied the information desired by Torquatus, and had furnished him with a sure clue to the desired turn, by calling his attention to the tomb close round it, distinguishable by so remarkable a picture.

When their company was departed, he told all that he had observed to his brother, remarking, “That man will give us trouble yet: I strongly suspect him.”

In a short time they had removed every mark which Torquatus had made at the turnings. But this was no security against his reckonings; and they determined to prepare for changing the road, by blocking up the present one, and turning off at another point. For this purpose they had the sand of new excavations brought to the ends of a gallery which crossed the main avenue, where this was low, and left it heaped up there till the faithful could be instructed of the intended change.

CHAPTER V.

ABOVE GROUND.

TO recover our reader from his long subterranean excursion, we must take him with us on another visit, to the “happy Campania,” or, “Campany the blest,” as an old writer might have called it. There we left Fabiola perplexed by some sentences which she had found. They came to her like a letter from another world; she hardly knew of what character. She wished to learn more about them, but she hardly durst inquire. Many visitors called the next day, and for several days after, and she often thought of putting before some or other of them the mysterious sentences, but she could not bring herself to do it.

A lady, whose life was like her own, philosophically correct, and coldly virtuous, came; and they talked together over the fashionable opinions of the day. She took out her vellum page to puzzle her; but she shrank from submitting it to her: it felt profane to do so. A learned man, well read in all branches of science and literature, paid her a long visit, and spoke very charmingly on the sublimer views of the older schools. She was tempted to consult him about her discovery; but it seemed to contain something higher than he could comprehend. It was strange that, after all, when wisdom or consolation was to be sought, the noble and haughty Roman lady should turn instinctively to her Christian slave. And so it was now. The first moment they were alone, after several days of company and visits, Fabiola produced her parchment, and placed it before Syra. There passed over her countenance an emotion not observable to her mistress; but she was perfectly calm, as she looked up from reading.

“That writing,” said her mistress, “I got at Chromatius’s villa, on the back of a note, probably by mistake. I cannot drive it out of my mind, which is quite perplexed by it.”

“Why should it be so, my noble lady? Its sense seems plain enough.”

“Yes; and that very plainness gives me trouble. My natural feelings revolt against this sentiment: I fancy I ought to despise a man who does not resent an injury, and return hatred for hatred. To forgive at most would be much; but to do good in return for evil, seems to me an unnatural exaction from human nature. Now, while I feel all this, I am conscious that I have been brought to esteem you, for conduct exactly the reverse of what I am naturally impelled to expect.”

“Oh, do not talk of me, my dear mistress; but look at the simple principle; you honor it in others, too. Do you despise, or do you respect, Aristides, for obliging a boorish enemy, by writing, when asked, his own name on the shell that voted his banishment? Do you, as a Roman lady, contemn or honor the name of Coriolanus, for his generous forbearance to your city?”

“I venerate both, most truly, Syra; but then you know those were heroes, and not every-day men.”

“And why should we not all be heroes?” asked Syra, laughing.

“Bless me, child! what a world we should live in, if we were. It is very pleasant reading about the feats of such wonderful people; but one would be very sorry to see them performed by common men, every day.”

“Why so?” pressed the servant.

“Why so? who would like to find a baby she was nursing, playing with, or strangling, serpents in the cradle? I should be very sorry to have a gentleman, whom I invited to dinner, telling me coolly he had that morning killed a minotaur, or strangled a hydra; or to have a friend offering to send the Tiber through my stables, to cleanse them. Preserve us from a generation of heroes, say I.” And Fabiola laughed heartily at the conceit. In the same good humor Syra continued:

“But suppose we had the misfortune to live in a country where such monsters existed, centaurs and minotaurs, hydras and dragons. Would it not be better that common men should be heroes enough to conquer them, than that we should have to send off to the other side of the world for a Theseus, or a Hercules, to destroy them? In fact, in that case, a man would be no more a hero if he fought them, than a lion-slayer is in my country.”

“Quite true, Syra; but I do not see the application of your idea.”

“It is this: anger, hatred, revenge, ambition, avarice, are to my mind as complete monsters as serpents or dragons; and they attack common men as much as great ones. Why should not I try to be as able to conquer them as Aristides, or Coriolanus, or Cincinnatus? Why leave it to heroes only, to do what we can do as well?”

“And do you really hold this as a common moral principle? If so, I fear you will soar too high.”

“No, dear lady. You were startled when I ventured to maintain that inward and unseen virtue was as necessary as the outward and visible: I fear I must surprise you still more.”

“Go on, and do not fear to tell me all.”

“Well, then, the principle of that system which I profess is this: that we must treat and practise, as every-day and common virtue, nay, as simple duty, whatever any other code, the purest and sublimest that may be, considers heroic, and proof of transcendent virtue.”

“That is indeed a sublime standard to form, of moral elevation; but mark the difference between the two cases. The hero is supported by the praises of the world: his act is recorded and transmitted to posterity, when he checks his passions, and performs a sublime action. But who sees, cares for, or shall requite, the poor obscure wretch, who in humble secrecy imitates his conduct?”

Syra, with solemn, reverential look and gesture, raised her eyes and her right hand to heaven, and slowly said: “His Father, who is in heaven, who maketh His sun to rise on the good and the bad, and raineth on the just and the unjust.”

Fabiola paused for a time, overawed: then said affectionately and respectfully: “Again, Syra, you have conquered my philosophy. Your wisdom is consistent as it is sublime. A virtue heroic, even when unseen, you propose as the ordinary daily virtue of every one. Men must indeed become more than what gods have been thought to be, to attempt it; but the very idea is worth a whole philosophy. Can you lead me higher than this?”

“Oh, far!—far higher still.”

“And where at length would you leave me?”

“Where your heart should tell you that it had found peace.”

CHAPTER VI.

DELIBERATIONS.

THE persecution had now been some time raging in the East under Dioclesian and Galerius; and the decree for enkindling it throughout the West, had reached Maximian. But it had been resolved to make this a work, not of repression, but of extermination, of the Christian name. It had been determined to spare no one; but cutting off the chiefs of the religion first, to descend down to the wholesale butchery of the poorest classes. It was necessary for this purpose to concert measures, that the various engines of destruction might work in cruel harmony: that every possible instrument should be employed to secure completeness to the effort; and also that the majesty of imperial command should add its grandeur and its terror to the crushing blow.

For this purpose the emperor, though impatient to begin his work of blood, had yielded to the opinion of his counsellors, that the edict should be kept concealed till it could be published simultaneously in every province, and government, of the West. The thundercloud, fraught with vengeance, would thus hang for a time, in painful mystery, over its intended victims, and then burst suddenly upon them, discharging upon their heads its mingled elements, and its “fire, hail, snow, ice, and boisterous blast.”

It was in the month of November, that Maximian Herculeus convoked the meeting in which his plans had finally to be adjusted. To it were summoned the leading officers of his court, and of the state. The principal one, the prefect of the city, had brought with him his son, Corvinus, whom he had proposed to be captain of a body of armed pursuivants, picked out for their savageness and hatred of Christians; who should hunt them out, or down, with unrelenting assiduity. The chief prefects or governors of Sicily, Italy, Spain, and Gaul, were present, to receive their orders. In addition to these, several learned men, philosophers, and orators, among whom was our old acquaintance Calpurnius, had been invited; and many priests, who had come from different parts, to petition for heavier persecution, were commanded to attend.

The usual residence of the emperors, as we have seen, was the Palatine. There was, however, another much esteemed by them, which Maximian Herculeus in particular preferred. During the reign of Nero, the wealthy senator, Plautius Lateranus, was charged with conspiracy, and of course punished with death. His immense property was seized by the emperor, and part of this was his house, described by Juvenal, and other writers, as of unusual size and magnificence. It was beautifully situated on the Cœlian hill, and on the southern verge of the city; so that from it was a view unequalled even in the vicinity of Rome. Stretching across the wavy campagna, here bestrided by colossal aqueducts, crossed by lines of roads, with their fringes of marble tombs, and bespangled all over with glittering villas, set like gems in the dark green enamel of laurel and cypress, the eye reached, at evening, the purple slope of hills on which, as on a couch, lay stretched luxuriously Alba and Tusculum, with “their daughters,” according to oriental phrase,

 

 

basking brightly in the setting sun. The craggy range of Sabine mountains on the left, and the golden expanse of the sea on the right of the beholder, closed in this perfect landscape.

It would be attributing to Maximian a quality which he did not possess, were we to give him credit for loving a residence so admirably situated, through any taste for the beautiful. The splendor of the buildings, which he had still further adorned, or possibly the facility of running out of the city for the chase of boar and wolf, was the motive of this preference. A native of Sirmium, in Sclavonia, a reputed barbarian therefore of the lowest extraction, a mere soldier of fortune, without any education, endowed with little more than a brute strength, which made his surname of Herculeus most appropriate, he had been raised to the purple by his brother-barbarian Diocles, known as the emperor Dioclesian. Like him, covetous to meanness, and spendthrift to recklessness, addicted to the same coarse vices and foul crimes, which a Christian pen refuses to record, without restraint of any passion, without sense of justice, or feeling of humanity, this monster had never ceased to oppress, persecute, and slay whoever stood in his way. To him the coming persecution looked like an approaching feast does to a glutton, who requires the excitement of a surfeit to relieve the monotony of daily excess. Gigantic in frame, with the well-known features of his race, with the hair on his head and face more yellow than red, shaggy and wild, like tufts of straw, with eyes restlessly rolling in a compound expression of suspicion, profligacy, and ferocity, this almost last of Rome’s tyrants struck terror into the heart of any beholder, except a Christian. Is it wonderful that he hated the race and its name?

In the large basilica, or hall, then, of the Ædes Lateranæ,[110] Maximian met his motley council, in which secrecy was ensured by penalty of death. In the semicircular apse at the upper end of the hall, sat the emperor, on an ivory throne richly adorned, and before him were arranged his obsequious and almost trembling advisers. A chosen body of guards kept the entrance; and the officer in command, Sebastian, was leaning negligently against it on the inside, but carefully noted every word that was spoken.

Little did the emperor think, that the hall in which he sat, and which he afterwards gave, with the contiguous palace, to Constantine, as part of the dowry of his daughter, Fausta, would be transferred by him to the head of the religion he was planning to extirpate, and become, retaining its name of the Lateran Basilica, the cathedral of Rome, “of all the churches of the city and of the world the mother and chief.”[111] Little did he imagine, that on the spot whereon rested his throne, would be raised a Chair, whence commands should issue, to reach worlds unknown to Roman sway, from an immortal race of sovereigns, spiritual and temporal.

Precedence was granted, by religious courtesy, to the priests; each of whom had his tale to tell. Here a river had overflowed its banks, and done much mischief to the neighboring plains; there an earthquake had thrown down part of a town; on the northern frontiers the barbarians threatened invasion; at the south, the plague was ravaging the pious population. In every instance, the oracles had declared, that it was all owing to the Christians, whose toleration irritated the gods, and whose evil charms brought calamity on the empire. Nay, some had afflicted their votaries by openly proclaiming, that they would utter no more, till the odious Nazarenes had been exterminated; and the great Delphic oracle had not hesitated to declare, “that the Just did not allow the gods to speak.”

Next came the philosophers and orators, each of whom made his own long-winded oration; during which Maximian gave unequivocal signs of weariness. But as the Emperors in the East had held a similar meeting, he considered it his duty to sit out the annoyance. The usual calumnies were repeated, for the ten-thousandth time, to an applauding assembly; the stories of murdering and eating infants, of committing foul crimes, of worshipping martyrs’ bodies, of adoring an ass’s head, and inconsistently enough of being unbelievers, and serving no God. These tales were all most firmly believed: though probably their reciters knew perfectly well, they were but good sound heathen lies, very useful in keeping up a horror of Christianity.

But, at length, up rose the man, who was considered to have most deeply studied the doctrines of the enemy, and best to know their dangerous tactics. He was supposed to have read their own books, and to be drawing up a confutation of their errors, which would fairly crush them. Indeed, so great was his weight with his own side, that when he asserted that Christians held any monstrous principle, had their supreme pontiff in person contradicted it, every one would have laughed at the very idea of taking his word for his own belief, against the assertion of Calpurnius.

He struck up a different strain, and his learning quite astonished his fellow-sophists. He had read the original books, he said, not only of the Christians themselves, but of their forefathers, the Jews; who, having come into Egypt in the reign of Ptolemy Philadelphus, to escape from a famine in their own country, through the arts of their leader, Josephus, bought up all the corn there, and sent it home. Upon which Ptolemy imprisoned them, telling them, that as they had eaten up all the corn, they should live on the straw, by making bricks with it for building a great city. Then Demetrius Phalerius, hearing from them of a great many curious histories of their ancestors, shut up Moses and Aaron, their most learned men, in a tower, having shaved half their beards, till they should write in Greek all their records. These rare books Calpurnius had seen, and he would build his argument entirely on them. This race made war upon every king and people, that came in their way; and destroyed them all. It was their principle, if they took a city, to put every one to the sword; and this was all because they were under the government of their ambitious priests; so that when a certain king, Saul, called also Paul, spared a poor captive monarch whose name was Agag, the priests ordered him to be brought out and hewed in pieces.

“Now,” continued he, “these Christians are still under the domination of the same priesthood, and are quite as ready to-day, under their direction, to overthrow the great Roman empire, burn us all in the Forum, and even sacrilegiously assail the sacred and venerable heads of our divine emperors.”

A thrill of horror ran through the assembly, at this recital. It was soon hushed, as the emperor opened his mouth to speak.

“For my part,” he said, “I have another and a stronger reason for my abhorrence of these Christians. They have dared to establish in the heart of the empire, and in this very city, a supreme religious authority, unknown here before, independent of the government of the State, and equally powerful over their minds as this. Formerly, all acknowledged the emperor as supreme in religious, as in civil, rule. Hence he bears still the title of Pontifex Maximus. But these men have raised up a divided power, and consequently bear but a divided loyalty. I hate, therefore, as a usurpation in my dominions, this sacerdotal sway over my subjects. For I declare, that I would rather hear of a new rival starting up to my throne, than of the election of one of these priests in Rome.”[112]

This speech, delivered in a harsh grating voice, and with a vulgar foreign accent, was received with immense applause; and plans were formed for the simultaneous publication of the Edict through the West, and for its complete and exterminating execution.

Then turning sharp upon Tertullus, the emperor said: “Prefect, you said you had some one to propose, for superintending these arrangements, and for merciless dealings with these traitors.”

“He is here, sire, my son Corvinus.” And Tertullus handed the youthful candidate to the grim tyrant’s footstool, where he knelt. Maximian eyed him keenly, burst into a hideous laugh, and said: “Upon my word, I think he’ll do. Why, prefect, I had no idea you had such an ugly son. I should think he is just the thing; every quality of a thoroughpaced, unconscientious scape-grace is stamped upon his features.”

Then turning to Corvinus, who was scarlet with rage, terror, and shame, he said to him: “Mind you, sirrah, I must have clean work of it; no hacking and hewing, no blundering. I pay up well if I am well served; but I pay off well, too, if badly served. So now go; and remember, that if your back can answer for a small fault, your head will for a greater. The lictors’ fasces contain an axe as well as rods.”

The emperor rose to depart, when his eye caught Fulvius, who had been summoned as a paid court-spy, but who kept as much in the back-ground as possible. “Ho, there, my eastern worthy,” he called out to him; “draw nearer.”

Fulvius obeyed with apparent cheerfulness, but with real reluctance; much the same as if he had been invited to go very near a tiger, the strength of whose chain he was not quite sure about. He had seen, from the beginning, that his coming to Rome had not been acceptable to Maximian, though he knew not fully the cause. It was not merely that the tyrant had plenty of favorites of his own to enrich, and spies to pay, without Dioclesian’s sending him more from Asia, though this had its weight; but it was more. He believed in his heart that Fulvius had been sent principally to act the spy upon himself, and to report to Nicomedia the sayings and doings of his court. While, therefore, he was obliged to tolerate him, and employ him, he mistrusted and disliked him, which in him was equivalent to hating him. It was some compensation, therefore, to Corvinus, when he heard his more polished confederate publicly addressed, as rudely as himself, in the following terms:

“None of your smooth, put-on looks for me, fellow. I want deeds, not smirks. You came here as a famous plothunter, a sort of stoat, to pull conspirators out of their nests, or suck their eggs for me. I have seen nothing of this so far; and yet you have had plenty of money to set you up in business. These Christians will afford you plenty of game; so make yourself ready, and let us see what you can do. You know my ways; you had better look sharp about you, therefore, or you may have to look at something very sharp before you. The property of the convicted will be divided between the accusers and the treasury; unless I see particular reasons for taking the whole to myself. Now you may go.”

Most thought that these particular reasons would turn out to be very general.

CHAPTER VII.

DARK DEATH.

A FEW days after Fabiola’s return from the country, Sebastian considered it his duty to wait upon her, to communicate so much of the dialogue between Corvinus and her black slave, as he could without causing unnecessary suffering. We have already observed, that of the many noble youths whom Fabiola had met in her father’s house, none had excited her admiration and respect except Sebastian. So frank, so generous, so brave, yet so unboasting; so mild, so kind in act and speech, so unselfish and so careful of others, blending so completely in one character nobleness and simplicity, high wisdom and practical sense, he seemed to her the most finished type of manly virtue, one which would not easily suffer by time, nor weary by familiarity.

When, therefore, it was announced to her that the officer Sebastian wished to speak to her alone, in one of the halls below, her heart beat at the unusual tidings, and conjured up a thousand strange fancies, about the possible topics of his interview. This agitation was not diminished, when, after apologizing for his seeming intrusion, he remarked with a smile, that, well knowing how sufficiently she was already annoyed by the many candidates for her hand, he felt regret at the idea that he was going to add another, yet undeclared, to her list. If this ambiguous preface surprised, and perhaps elated her, she was soon depressed again, upon being told it was the vulgar and stupid Corvinus. For her father, even, little as he knew how to discriminate characters out of business, had seen enough of him at his late banquet to characterize him to his daughter by those epithets.

Sebastian, fearing rather the physical, than the moral activity of Afra’s drugs, thought it right to inform her of the compact between the two dabblers in the black art, the principal efficacy of which, however, seemed to consist in drawing money from the purse of a reluctant dupe. He of course said nothing of what related to the Christians in that dialogue. He put her on her guard, and she promised to prevent the nightly excursions of her necromancer slave. What Afra had engaged to do, she did not for a moment believe it was ever her intention to attempt; neither did she fear arts which she utterly despised. Indeed Afra’s last soliloquy seemed satisfactorily to prove that she was only deceiving her victim. But she certainly felt indignant at having been bargained about by two such vile characters, and having been represented as a grasping avaricious woman, whose price was gold.

“I feel,” she said at last to Sebastian, “how very kind it is of you, to come thus to put me on my guard; and I admire the delicacy with which you have unfolded so disagreeable a matter, and the tenderness with which you have treated every one concerned.”

“I have only done in this instance,” replied the soldier, “what I should have done for any human being,—save him, if possible, from pain or danger.”

“Your friends, I hope you mean,” said Fabiola, smiling; “otherwise I fear your whole life would go, in works of unrequited benevolence.”

“And so let it go; it could not be better spent.”

“Surely, you are not in earnest, Sebastian. If you saw one who had ever hated you, and sought your destruction, threatened with a calamity, which would make him harmless, would you stretch out your hand to save, or succor, him?”

“Certainly I would. While God sends His sunshine and His rain equally upon His enemies, as upon His friends, shall weak man frame another rule of justice?”

At these words Fabiola wondered; they were so like those of her mysterious parchment, identical with the moral theories of her slave.

“You have been in the East, I believe, Sebastian,” she asked him, rather abruptly; “was it there that you learnt these principles? For I have one near me, who is yet, by her own choice, a servant, a woman of rare moral perceptions, who has propounded to me the same ideas; and she is an Asiatic.”

“It is not in any distant country that I learnt them; for here I sucked them in with my mother’s milk; though, originally, they doubtless came from the East.”

“They are certainly beautiful in the abstract,” remarked Fabiola; “but death would overtake us before we could half carry them out, were we to make them our principles of conduct.”

“And how better could death find us, though not surprise us, than in thus doing our duty, even if not to its completion?”

“For my part,” resumed the lady, “I am of the old Epicurean poet’s mind. This world is a banquet, from which I shall be ready to depart when I have had my fill—ut conviva satur[113]—and not till then. I wish to read life’s book through, and close it calmly, only when I have finished its last page.”

Sebastian shook his head, smiling, and said, “The last page of this world’s book comes but in the middle of the volume, wherever ‘death’ may happen to be written. But on the next page begins the illuminated book of a new life—without a last page.”

“I understand you,” replied Fabiola, good-humoredly; “you are a brave soldier, and you speak as such. You must be always prepared for death from a thousand casualties; we seldom see it approach suddenly; it comes more mercifully, and stealthily, upon the weak. You no doubt are musing on a more glorious fate, on receiving in front full sheaves of arrows from the enemy, and falling covered with honor. You look to the soldier’s funeral pile, with trophies erected over it. To you, after death, opens its bright page the book of glory.”

“No, no, gentle lady,” exclaimed Sebastian, emphatically. “I mean not so. I care not for glory, which can only be enjoyed by an anticipating fancy. I speak of vulgar death, as it may come to me in common with the poorest slave; consuming me by slow burning fever, wasting me by long lingering consumption, racking me by slowly eating ulcers; nay, if you please, by the still crueller inflictions of men’s wrath. In any form let it come; it comes from a hand that I love.”

“And do you really mean that death, so contemplated, would be welcomed by you?”

“As joyful as is the epicure, when the doors of the banqueting-hall are thrown wide open, and he sees beyond them the brilliant lamps, the glittering table, and its delicious viands, with its attendant ministers well girt, and crowned with roses; as blithe as is the bride when the bridegroom is announced, coming with rich gifts, to conduct her to her new home, will my exulting heart be, when death, under whatever form, throws back the gates, iron on this side, but golden on the other, which lead to a new and perennial life. And I care not how grim the messenger may be, that proclaims the approach of Him who is celestially beautiful.”

“And who is He?” asked Fabiola, eagerly. “Can He not be seen, save through the fleshless ribs of death?”

“No,” replied Sebastian; “for it is He who must reward us, not only for our lives, but for our deaths also. Happy they whose inmost hearts, which He has ever read, have been kept pure and innocent, as well as their deeds have been virtuous! For them is this bright vision of Him, whose true rewards only then begin.”

How very like Syra’s doctrines! she thought. But before she could speak again, to ask whence they came, a slave entered, stood on the threshold, and respectfully said:

“A courier, madam, is just arrived from Baiæ.”[114]

“Pardon me, Sebastian!” she exclaimed. “Let him enter immediately.”

The messenger came in, covered with dust and jaded, having left his tired horse at the gate; and offered her a sealed packet.

Her hand trembled as she took it; and while she was unloosening its bands, she hesitatingly asked:

“From my father?”

“About him, at least,” was the ominous reply.

She opened the sheet, glanced over it, shrieked, and fell. Sebastian caught her before she reached the ground, laid her on a couch, and delicately left her in the hands of her handmaids, who had rushed in at the cry.