CHAPTER V.THE VISIT.

“Fabiola grasped the style in her right hand, and made an almost blind thrust at the unflinching handmaid.”

modestly, but with a fervent look that astonished her mistress, the foreign slave; “yes, I hope, nay, Iintendto survive all this. And more yet; I believe, and know, that out of that charnel-pit which you have so vividly described, there is a hand that will pick out each charred fragment of my frame. And there is a power that will call to reckoning the four winds of heaven, and make each give back every grain of my dust that it has scattered; and I shall be built up once more in this my body, not as yours, or any one’s, bondwoman, but free, and joyful, and glorious, loving for ever, and beloved. This certain hope is laid up in my bosom.”[19]

“What wild visions of an eastern fancy are these, unfitting you for every duty? You must be cured of them. In what school did you learn all this nonsense? I never read of it in any Greek or Latin author.”

“In one belonging to my own land; a school in which there is no distinction known, or admitted, between Greek or barbarian, freeman or slave.”

“What!” exclaimed, with strong excitement, the haughty lady, “without waiting even for that future ideal existence after death; already, even now, you presume to claim equality with me? Nay, who knows, perhaps superiority over me. Come, tell me at once, and without daring to equivocate or disguise, if you do so or not?” And she sat up in an attitude of eager expectation. At every word of the calm reply her agitation increased; and violent passions seemed to contend within her, as Syra said:

“Most noble mistress, far superior are you to me in place, and power, and learning, and genius, and in all that enriches and embellishes life; and in every grace of form and lineament, and in every charm of act and speech, high are you raised above all rivalry, and far removed from envious thought, from one so lowly and so insignificant as I. But if Imust answer simple truth to your authoritative question”—she paused, as faltering; but an imperious gesture from her mistress bade her continue—“then I put it to your own judgment, whether a poor slave, who holds an unquenchable consciousness of possessing within her a spiritual and living intelligence, whose measure of existence is immortality, whose only true place of dwelling is above the skies, whose only rightful prototype is the Deity, can hold herself inferior in moral dignity, or lower in greatness of thought, than one who, however gifted, owns that she claims no higher destiny, recognizes in herself no sublimer end, than what awaits the pretty irrational songsters that beat, without hope of liberty, against the gilded bars of that cage.”[20]

Fabiola’s eyes flashed with fury; she felt herself, for the first time in her life, rebuked, humbled by a slave. She grasped the style in her right hand, and made an almost blind thrust at the unflinching handmaid. Syra instinctively put forward her arm to save her person, and received the point, which, aimed upwards from the couch, inflicted a deeper gash than she had ever before suffered. The tears started into her eyes through the smart of the wound, from which the blood gushed in a stream. Fabiola was in a moment ashamed of her cruel, though unintentional, act, and felt still more humbled before her servants.

“Go, go,” she said to Syra, who was stanching the blood with her handkerchief, “go to Euphrosyne, and have the wound dressed. I did not mean to hurt you so grievously. But stay a moment, I must make you some compensation.” Then, after turning over her trinkets on the table, she continued, “Take this ring; and you need not return here again this evening.”

Fabiola’s conscience was quite satisfied; she had made

“He who watched with beaming eye, the alms-coffers of Jerusalem, and noted the widow’s mite, alone saw dropped into the chest, by the bandaged arm of a foreign female slave, a valuable emerald ring.”

A Lamp, found in the Catacombs.

what she considered ample atonement for the injury she had inflicted, in the shape of a costly present to a menial dependant. And on the following Sunday, in the title[21]of St. Pastor, not far from her house, among the alms collected for the poor was found a valuable emerald ring, which the good priest Polycarp thought must have been the offering of some very rich Roman lady; but which He who watched, with beaming eye, the alms-coffers of Jerusalem, and noted the widow’s mite, alone saw dropped into the chest by the bandaged arm of a foreign female slave.

DURING the latter part of the dialogue just recorded, and the catastrophe which closed it, there took place an apparition in Fabiola’s room, which, if seen by her, would probably have cut short the one and prevented the other. The interior chambers in a Roman house were more frequently divided by curtains across their entrances than by doors; and thus it was easy, especially during such an excited scene as had just taken place, to enter unobserved. This was the case now; and when Syra turned to leave the room she was almost startled at seeing standing, in bright relief before the deep crimson door-curtain, a figure which she immediately recognized, but which we must briefly describe.

It was that of a lady, or rather a child not more than twelve or thirteen years old, dressed in pure and spotless white, without a single ornament about her person. In her countenance might be seen united the simplicity of childhood with the intelligence of a maturer age. There not merely dwelt in her eyes that dove-like innocence which the sacred poet describes,[22]but often there beamed from them rather an intensity of pure affection, as though they were looking beyond all surrounding objects, and rested upon one, unseen by all else, but to her really present and exquisitely dear. Herforehead was the very seat of candor, open and bright with undisguising truthfulness; a kindly smile played about the lips, and the fresh, youthful features varied their sensitive expression with guileless earnestness, passing rapidly from one feeling to the other, as her warm and tender heart received it. Those who knew her believed that she never thought of herself, but was divided entirely between kindness to those about her, and affection for her unseen love.

When Syra saw this beautiful vision, like that of an angel, before her, she paused for a moment. But the child took her hand and reverently kissed it, saying, “I have seen all; meet me in the small chamber near the entrance, when I go out.”

She then advanced; and as Fabiola saw her, a crimson blush mantled in her cheek; for she feared the child had been witness of her undignified burst of passion. With a cold wave of her hand she dismissed her slaves, and then greeted her kinswoman, for such she was, with cordial affection. We have said that Fabiola’s temper made a few exceptions in its haughty exercise. One of these was her old nurse and freed-woman Euphrosyne, who directed all her private household, and whose only creed was, that Fabiola was the most perfect of beings, the wisest, most accomplished, most admirable lady in Rome. Another was her young visitor, whom she loved, and ever treated with gentlest affection, and whose society she always coveted.

“This is really kind of you, dear Agnes,” said the softened Fabiola, “to come at my sudden request, to join our table to-day. But the fact is, my father has called in one or two new people to dine, and I was anxious to have some one with whom I could have the excuse of a duty to converse. Yet I own I have some curiosity about one of our new guests. It is Fulvius, of whose grace, wealth, and accomplishments I hear so much; though nobody seems to know who or what he is, or whence he has sprung up.”

“My dear Fabiola,” replied Agnes, “you know I am always happy to visit you, and my kind parents willingly allow me; therefore, make no apologies about that.”

Saint Agnes. From an old vase.

“And so you have come to me as usual,” said the other playfully, “in your own snow-white dress, without jewel or ornament, as if you were every day a bride. You always seem to me to be celebrating one eternal espousal. But, good heavens! what is this? Are you hurt? Or are you aware that there is, right on the bosom of your tunic, a large red spot—it looks like blood. If so, let me change your dress at once.”

“Not for the world, Fabiola; it is the jewel, the only ornament I mean to wear this evening. Itisblood, and that of a slave; but nobler, in my eyes, and more generous, than flows in your veins or mine.”

The whole truth flashed upon Fabiola’s mind. Agnes had seen all; and humbled almost to sickening, she said somewhat pettishly, “Do you then wish to exhibit proof to all the world of my hastiness of temper, in over-chastising a forward slave?”

“No, dear cousin, far from it. I only wish to preservefor myself a lesson of fortitude, and of elevation of mind, learnt from a slave, such as few patrician philosophers can teach us.”

“What a strange idea! Indeed, Agnes, I have often thought that you make too much of that class of people. After all, what are they?”

Saint Agnes. From an old vase preserved in the Vatican Museum.

“Human beings as much as ourselves, endowed with the same reason, the same feelings, the same organization. Thus far you will admit, at any rate, to go no higher. Then they form part of the same family; and if God, from whom comesourlife, is thereby our Father, He is theirs as much, and consequently they are our brethren.”

“A slave my brother or sister, Agnes? The gods forbid it! They are our property and our goods; and I have no notion of their being allowed to move, to act, to think, or to feel, except as it suits their masters, or is fortheiradvantage.”

“Come, come,” said Agnes, with her sweetest tones, “do not let us get into a warm discussion. You are too candid and honorable not to feel, and to be ready to acknowledge, that to-day you have been outdone by a slave in all that youmost admire,—in mind, in reasoning, in truthfulness, and in heroic fortitude. Do not answer me; I see it in that tear. But, dearest cousin, I will save you from a repetition of your pain. Will you grant me my request?”

“Any in my power.”

“Then it is, that you will allow me to purchase Syra—I think that is her name. You will not like to see her about you.”

“You are mistaken, Agnes. I will master pride for once, and own, that I shall now esteem her, perhaps almost admire her. It is a new feeling in me towards one in her station.”

“But I think, Fabiola, I could make her happier than she is.”

“No doubt, dear Agnes; you have the power of making every body happy about you. I never saw such a household as yours. You seem to carry out in practice that strange philosophy which Syra alluded to, in which there is no distinction of freeman and slave. Every body in your house is always smiling, and cheerfully anxious to discharge his duty. And there seems to be no one who thinks of commanding. Come, tell me your secret.” (Agnes smiled.) “I suspect, you little magician, that in that mysterious chamber, which you will never open for me, you keep your charms and potions by which you make every body and every thing love you. If you were a Christian, and were exposed in the amphitheatre, I am sure the very leopards would crouch and nestle at your feet. But why do you look so serious, child? You know I am only joking.”

Agnes seemed absorbed; and bent forward that keen and tender look which we have mentioned, as though she saw before her, nay, as if she heard speaking to her, some one delicately beloved. It passed away, and she gaily said, “Well, well, Fabiola, stranger things have come to pass; and at any rate, if aught so dreadful had to happen, Syrawould just be the sort of person one would like to see near one; so you really must let me have her.”

“For heaven’s sake, Agnes, do not take my words so seriously. I assure you they were spoken in jest. I have too high an opinion of your good sense to believe such a calamity possible. But as to Syra’s devotedness, you are right. When last summer you were away, and I was so dangerously ill of contagious fever, it required the lash to make the other slaves approach me; while that poor thing would hardly leave me, but watched by me, and nursed me day and night, and I really believe greatly promoted my recovery.”

“And did you not love her for this?”

“Love her! Love a slave, child! Of course, I took care to reward her generously; though I cannot make out what she does with what I give her. The others tell me she has nothing put by, and she certainly spends nothing on herself. Nay, I have even heard that she foolishly shares her daily allowance of food with a blind beggar-girl. What a strange fancy, to be sure!”

“Dearest Fabiola,” exclaimed Agnes, “she must be mine! You promised me my request. Name your price, and let me take her home this evening.”

“Well, be it so, you most irresistible of petitioners. But we will not bargain together. Send some one to-morrow, to see my father’s steward, and all will be right. And now this great piece of business being settled between us, let us go down to our guests.”

“But you have forgotten to put on your jewels.”

“Never mind them; I will do without them for once; I feel no taste for them to-day.”

THEY found, on descending, all the guests assembled in a hall below. It was not a state banquet which they were going to share, but the usual meal of a rich house, where preparation for a tableful of friends was always made. We will therefore content ourselves with saying that every thing was elegant and exquisite in arrangement and material; and we will confine ourselves entirely to such incidents as may throw a light upon our story.

When the two ladies entered the exedra or hall, Fabius, after saluting his daughter, exclaimed, “Why, my child, you have come down, though late, still scarcely fittingly arranged! You have forgotten your usual trinkets.”

Fabiola was confused. She knew not what answer to make: she was ashamed of her weakness about her angry display; and still more of what she now thought a silly way of punishing herself for it. Agnes stepped in to the rescue, and blushingly said: “It is my fault, cousin Fabius, both that she is late and that she is so plainly dressed. I detained her with my gossip, and no doubt she wishes to keep me in countenance by the simplicity of her attire.”

“You, dear Agnes,” replied the father, “are privileged to do as you please. But, seriously speaking, I must say that, even with you, this may have answered while you were amere child; now that you are marriageable,[23]you must begin to make a little more display, and try to win the affections of some handsome and eligible youth. A beautiful necklace, for instance, such as you have plenty of at home, would not make you less attractive. But you are not attending to me. Come, come, I dare say you have some one already in view.”

During most of this address, which was meant to be thoroughly good-natured, as it was perfectly worldly, Agnes appeared in one of her abstracted moods, her bewitched looks, as Fabiola called them, transfixed, in a smiling ecstasy, as if attending to some one else, but never losing the thread of the discourse, nor saying any thing out of place. She therefore at once answered Fabius: “Oh, yes, most certainly, one who has already pledged me to him by his betrothal-ring, and has adorned me with immense jewels.”[24]

“Really!” asked Fabius, “with what?”

“Why,” answered Agnes, with a look of glowing earnestness, and in tones of artless simplicity, “he has girded my hand and neck with precious gems, and has set in my ears rings of peerless pearls.”[25]

“Goodness! who can it be? Come, Agnes, some day you must tell me your secret. Your first love, no doubt; may it last long and make you happy!”

“For ever!” was her reply, as she turned to join Fabiola, and enter with her into the dining-room. It was well she had not overheard this dialogue, or she would have been hurt to the quick, as thinking that Agnes had concealed the most important thought of her age, as she would have considered it, from her most loving friend. But while Agnes was defending her, she had turned away from her father, and had been attending to the other guests. One was a heavy, thick-necked Roman sophist, or dealer in universal knowledge, named Calpurnius; another, Proculus, a mere lover of good fare, often at the house. Two more remain, deserving further notice. The first of them, evidently a favorite both with Fabiola and Agnes, was a tribune, a high officer of the imperial or prætorian guard. Though not above thirty years of age, he had already distinguished himself by his valor, and enjoyed the highest favor with the emperors Dioclesian in the East, and Maximian Herculius in Rome. He was free from all affectation in manner or dress, though handsome in person; and though most engaging in conversation, he manifestly scorned the foolish topics which generally occupied society. In short, he was a perfect specimen of a noble-hearted youth, full of honor and generous thoughts; strong and brave, without a particle of pride or display in him.

Quite a contrast to him was the last guest, already alluded to by Fabiola, the new star of society, Fulvius. Young, and almost effeminate in look, dressed with most elaborate elegance, with brilliant rings on every finger and jewels in his dress, affected in his speech, which had a slightly foreign accent, overstrained in his courtesy of manners, but apparently good-natured and obliging, he had in a short time quietly pushed his way into the highest society of Rome. This was, indeed, owing partly to his having been seen at the imperial court, and partly to the fascination of his manner. He had arrived in Rome accompanied by a single elderly attendant, evidently deeply attached to him; whether slave, freedman, or friend, nobody well knew. They spoke together always in a strange tongue, and the swarthy features, keen fiery eye, and unamiable expression of the domestic, inspired a certain degree of fear in his dependants; for Fulvius had taken an apartment in what was called aninsula, or house let out inparts, had furnished it luxuriously, and had peopled it with a sufficient bachelor’s establishment of slaves. Profusion rather than abundance distinguished all his domestic arrangements; and, in the corrupted and degraded circle of pagan Rome, the obscurity of his history, and the suddenness of his apparition, were soon forgotten in the evidence of his riches, and the charm of his loose conversation. A shrewd observer of character, however, would soon notice a wandering restlessness of eye, and an eagerness of listening attention for all sights and sounds around him, which betrayed an insatiable curiosity; and in moments of forgetfulness, a dark scowl under his knit brows, from his flashing eyes, and a curling of the upper lip, which inspired a feeling of mistrust, and gave an idea that his exterior softness only clothed a character of feline malignity.

Banquet Table, from a Pompeian painting.

The guests were soon at table; and as ladies sat, while men reclined on couches during the repast, Fabiola and Agnes were together on one side, the two younger guests last described were opposite, and the master, with his two elder friends, in the middle—if these terms can be used to describe their position about three parts of a round table; one side being left unencumbered by thesigma,[26]or semi-circular couch, for the convenience of serving. And we may observe, in passing, that a table-cloth, a luxury unknown in the times of Horace, was now in ordinary use.

When the first claims of hunger, or the palate, had been satisfied, conversation grew more general.

“What news to-day at the baths?” asked Calpurnius; “I have no leisure myself to look after such trifles.”

“Very interesting news indeed,” answered Proculus. “It seems quite certain that orders have been received from the divine Dioclesian, to finish his Thermæ in three years.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Fabius. “I looked in at the works the other day, on my way to Sallust’s gardens, and found them very little advanced in the last year. There is an immense deal of heavy work to be done, such as carving marbles and shaping columns.”

“True,” interposed Fulvius; “but I know that orders have been sent to all parts, to forward hither all prisoners, and all persons condemned to the mines in Spain, Sardinia, and even Chersonesus, who can possibly be spared, to come and labor at the Thermæ. A few thousand Christians, thus set to the work, will soon finish it.”

“And why Christians better than other criminals?” asked, with some curiosity, Fabiola.

“Why, really,” said Fulvius, with his most winning smile, “I can hardly give a reason for it; but the fact is so. Among fifty workmen so condemned, I would engage to pick out a single Christian.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed several at once; “pray how?”

“Ordinary convicts,” answered he, “naturally do not love their work, and they require the lash at every step to compel them to perform it; and when the overseer’s eye is off them, no work is done. And, moreover, they are, of course, rude, sottish, quarrelsome, and querulous. But the Christians, when condemned to these public works, seem, on the contrary, to be glad, and are always cheerful and obedient. I have seen young patricians so occupied in Asia, whose hands had never before handled a pickaxe, and whose weak shoulders had neverborne a weight, yet working hard, and as happy, to all appearance, as when at home. Of course, for all that, the overseers apply the lash and the stick very freely to them; and most justly; because it is the will of the divine emperors that their lot should be made as hard as possible; but still they never complain.”

“I cannot say that I admire this sort of justice,” replied Fabiola; “but what a strange race they must be! I am most curious to know what can be the motive or cause of this stupidity, or unnatural insensibility, in these Christians?”

Proculus replied, with a facetious look: “Calpurnius here no doubt can tell us; for he is a philosopher, and I hear could declaim for an hour on any topic, from the Alps to an ant-hill.”

Calpurnius, thus challenged, and thinking himself highly complimented, solemnly gave mouth: “The Christians,” said he, “are a foreign sect, the founder of which flourished many ages ago in Chaldea. His doctrines were brought to Rome at the time of Vespasian by two brothers named Peter and Paul. Some maintain that these were the same twin brothers as the Jews call Moses and Aaron, the second of whom sold his birthright to his brother for a kid, the skin of which he wanted to makechirothecæ[27]of. But this identity I do not admit; as it is recorded in the mystical books of the Jews, that the second of these brothers, seeing the other’s victims give better omens of birds than his own, slew him, as our Romulus did Remus, but with the jaw-bone of an ass; for which he was hung by King Mardochæus of Macedon, upon a gibbet fifty cubits high, at the suit of their sister Judith. However, Peter and Paul coming, as I said, to Rome, the former was discovered to be a fugitive slave of Pontius Pilate, and was crucified by his master’s orders on the Janiculum. Their followers, of whom they had many, made the cross theirsymbol, and adore it; and they think it the greatest honor to suffer stripes, and even ignominious death, as the best means of being like their teachers, and, as they fancy, of going to them in a place somewhere among the clouds.”[28]

This lucid explanation of the origin of Christianity was listened to with admiration by all except two. The young officer gave a piteous look towards Agnes, which seemed to say, “Shall I answer the goose, or shall I laugh outright?” But she put her finger on her lips, and smiled imploringly for silence.

“Well, then, the upshot of it is,” observed Proculus, “that the Thermæ will be finished soon, and we shall have glorious sport. Is it not said Fulvius, that the divine Dioclesian will himself come to the dedication?”

“It is quite certain; and so will there be splendid festivals and glorious games. But we shall not have to wait so long; already, for other purposes, have orders been sent to Numidia for an unlimited supply of lions and leopards to be ready before winter.” Then turning round sharp to his neighbor, he said, bending a keen eye upon his countenance: “A brave soldier like you, Sebastian, must be delighted with the noble spectacles of the amphitheatre, especially when directed against the enemies of the august emperors, and of the republic.”

The officer raised himself upon his couch, looked on his interrogator with an unmoved, majestic countenance, and answered calmly:

“Fulvius, I should not deserve the title which you give me, could I contemplate with pleasure, in cold blood, the struggle, if it deserve the name, between a brute beast and a helpless child or woman, for such are the spectacles which you call noble. No, I will draw my sword willingly against any enemy of the princes or the state; but I would as readily draw it against the lion or the leopard that should rush, even byimperial order, against the innocent and defenceless.” Fulvius was starting up; but Sebastian placed his strong hand upon his arm, and continued: “Hear me out. I am not the first Roman, nor the noblest, who has thought thus before me. Remember the words of Cicero: ‘Magnificent are these games, no doubt; but what delight can it be to a refined mind to see either a feeble man torn by a most powerful beast, or a noble animal pierced through by a javelin?’[29]I am not ashamed of agreeing with the greatest of Roman orators.”

“Then shall we never see you in the amphitheatre, Sebastian?” asked Fulvius, with a bland but taunting tone.

“If you do,” the soldier replied, “depend upon it, it will be on the side of the defenceless, not on that of the brutes that would destroy them.”

David with his Sling, from the Catacomb of St. Petronilla.

“Sebastian is right,” exclaimed Fabiola, clapping her hands, “and I close the discussion by my applause. I have never heard Sebastian speak, except on the side of generous and high-minded sentiments.”

Fulvius bit his lip in silence, and all rose to depart.

DURING the latter part of the conversation just recorded, Fabius had been quite abstracted, speculating upon his conversation with Agnes. How quietly she had kept her secret to herself! But who could this favored person be, who had already won her heart? He thought over many, but could find no answer. The gift of rich jewels particularly perplexed him. He knew no young Roman nobleman likely to possess them; and sauntering, as he did, every day into the great shops, he was sure to have heard if any such costly order had been given. Suddenly the bright idea flashed through his mind, that Fulvius, who daily exhibited new and splendid gems, brought from abroad, could be the only person able to make her such presents. He moreover noticed such occasional looks darted towards his cousin by the handsome foreigner, as left him no doubt that he was deeply enamored of her; and if Agnes did not seem conscious of the admiration, this of course was part of her plan. Once convinced of this important conclusion, he determined to favor the wishes of the two, and astonish his daughter one day by the sagacity he had displayed.

But we must leave our nobler guests for more humblescenes, and follow Syra from the time that she left her young mistress’s apartment. When she presented herself to Euphrosyne, the good-natured nurse was shocked at the cruel wound, and uttered an exclamation of pity. But immediately recognizing in it the work of Fabiola, she was divided between two contending feelings. “Poor thing!” she said, as she went on first washing, then closing and dressing, the gash; “it is a dreadful cut! What did you do to deserve it? How it must have hurt you, my poor girl! But how wicked you must have been to bring it upon yourself! It is a savage wound, yet inflicted by the gentlest of creatures! (You must be faint from loss of blood; take this cordial to support you): and no doubt she found herself obliged to strike.”

“No doubt,” said Syra, amused, “it was all my fault; I had no business to argue with my mistress.”

“Arguewith her!—argue!—O ye gods! who ever heard before of a slave arguing with a noble mistress, and such a learned one! Why, Calpurnius himself would be afraid of disputing with her. No wonder, indeed, she was so—so agitated as not to know that she was hurting you. But this must be concealed; it must not be known that you have been so wrong. Have you no scarf or nice veil that we could throw round the arm, as if for ornament? All the others I know have plenty, given or bought; but you never seem to care for these pretty things. Let us look.”

She went into the maid-slave’s dormitory, which was within her room, opened Syra’scapsaor box, and after turning over in vain its scanty contents, she drew forth from the bottom a square kerchief of richest stuff, magnificently embroidered, and even adorned with pearls. Syra blushed deeply, and entreated not to be obliged to wear this most disproportioned piece of dress, especially as it was a token of better days, long and painfully preserved. But Euphrosyne, anxious to hide her mistress’s fault, was inexorable; andthe rich scarf was gracefully fastened round the wounded arm.

This operation performed, Syra proceeded to the little parlor opposite the porter’s room, where the higher slaves could see their friends. She held in her hand a basket covered with a napkin. The moment she entered the door a light step came bounding across the room to meet her. It was that of a girl of about sixteen or seventeen, dressed in the poorest attire, but clean and neat, who threw her arms round Syra’s neck with such a bright countenance and such hearty glee, that a bystander would hardly have supposed that her sightless eyes had never communed with the outer world.

“Sit down, dear Cæcilia,” said Syra, with a most affectionate tone, and leading her to a seat; “to-day I have brought you a famous feast; you will fare sumptuously.”

“How so? I think I do every day.”

“No, but to-day my mistress has kindly sent me out a dainty dish from her table, and I have brought it here for you.”

“How kind of her; yet how much kinder of you, my sister! But why have you not partaken of it yourself? It was meant for you and not for me.”

“Why, to tell the truth, it is a greater treat to me, to see you enjoy any thing, than to enjoy it myself.”

“No, dear Syra, no; it must not be. God has wished me to be poor, and I must try to do His will. I could no more think of eating the food, than I could of wearing the dress, of the rich, so long as I can obtain that of the poor. I love to share with you yourpulmentum,[30]which I know is given me in charity by one poor like myself. I procure for you the merit of alms-deeds; you give me the consolation of feeling that I am, before God, still only a poor blind thing. I think He will love me better thus, than if feeding on luxurious fare. Iwould rather be with Lazarus at the gate, than with Dives at the table.”

“How much better and wiser you are than I, my good child! It shall be as you wish. I will give the dish to my companions, and, in the meantime, here I set before you your usual humble fare.”

“Thanks, thanks, dear sister; I will await your return.”

Syra went to the maids’ apartment, and put before her jealous but greedy companions the silver dish. As their mistress occasionally showed them this little kindness, it did not much surprise them. But the poor servant was weak enough to feel ashamed of appearing before her comrades with the rich scarf round her arm. She took it off before she entered; then, not wishing to displease Euphrosyne, replaced it as well as she could with one hand, on coming out. She was in the court below, returning to her blind friend, when she saw one of the noble guests of her mistress’s table alone, and, with a mortified look, crossing towards the door, and she stepped behind a column to avoid any possible, and not uncommon, rudeness. It was Fulvius; and no sooner did she, unseen, catch a glimpse of him, than she stood for a moment as one nailed to the spot. Her heart beat against her bosom, then quivered as if about to cease its action; her knees struck against one another, a shiver ran through her frame, while perspiration started on her brow. Her eyes, wide open, were fascinated, like the bird’s before the snake. She raised her hand to her breast, made upon it the sign of life, and the spell was broken. She fled in an instant, still unnoticed, and had hardly stepped noiselessly behind a curtain that closed the stairs, when Fulvius, with downcast eyes, reached the spot on which she had stood. He started back a step, as if scared by something lying before him. He trembled violently; but recovering himself by a sudden effort, he looked around him and saw that he was alone.There was no eye upon him—except One which he did not heed, but which read his evil heart in that hour. He gazed again upon the object, and stooped to pick it up, but drew back his hand, and that more than once. At last he heard footsteps approaching, he recognized the martial tread of Sebastian, and hastily he snatched up from the ground the rich scarf which had dropped from Syra’s arm. He shook as he folded it up; and when, to his horror, he found upon it spots of fresh blood, which had oozed through the bandages, he reeled like a drunken man to the door, and rushed to his lodgings.

Pale, sick, and staggering, he went into his chamber, repulsing roughly the officious advances of his slaves; and only beckoned to his faithful domestic to follow him, and then signed to him to bar the door. A lamp was burning brightly by the table, on which Fulvius threw the embroidered scarf in silence, and pointed to the stains of blood. That dark man said nothing; but his swarthy countenance was blanched, while his master’s was ashy and livid.

“It is the same, no doubt,” at length spoke the attendant in their foreign tongue; “butsheis certainly dead.”

“Art thou quite sure, Eurotas?” asked the master, with the keenest of his hawk’s looks.

“As sure as man can be of what he has not seen himself. Where didst thou find this? And whence this blood?”

“I will tell thee all to-morrow; I am too sick to-night. As to those stains, which were liquid when I found it, I know not whence they came, unless they are warnings of vengeance—nay, a vengeance themselves, deep as the Furies could meditate, fierce as they could launch. That blood has not been shednow.”

“Tut, tut! this is no time for dreams or fancies. Did any one see thee pick the—the thing up?”

“No one, I am sure.”

“Then we are safe; better in our hands than in others’. A good night’s rest will give us better counsel.”

“True, Eurotus; but do thou sleep this night in my chamber.”

Both threw themselves on their couches; Fulvius on a rich bed, Eurotus on a lowly pallet, from which, raised upon his elbow, with dark but earnest eye, he long watched, by the lamp’s light, the troubled slumbers of the youth—at once his devoted guardian and his evil genius. Fulvius tossed about and moaned in his sleep, for his dreams were gloomy and heavy. First he sees before him a beautiful city in a distant land, with a river of crystal brightness flowing through it. Upon it is a galley weighing anchor, with a figure on deck, waving towards him, in farewell, an embroidered scarf. The scene changes; the ship is in the midst of the sea, battling with a furious storm, while on the summit of the mast the same scarf streams out, like a pennant, unruffled and uncrumpled by the breeze. The vessel is now dashed upon a rock, and all with a dreadful shriek are buried in the deep. But the topmast stands above the billows, with its calm and brilliant flag; till, amidst the sea-birds that shriek around, a form with a torch in her hand, and black flapping wings, flies by, snatches it from the staff, and with a look of stern anger displays it, as in her flight she pauses before him. He reads upon it, written in fiery letters,Nemesis.[31]

But it is time to return to our other acquaintances in the house of Fabius.

After Syra had heard the door close on Fulvius she paused to compose herself, offered up a secret prayer, and returned to her blind friend. She had finished her frugal meal, and was waiting patiently the slave’s return. Syra then commenced her daily duties of kindness and hospitality; she brought water, washed her hands and feet in obedience to Christianpractice, and combed and dressed her hair, as if the poor creature had been her own child. Indeed, though not much older, her look was so tender, as she hung over her poor friend, her tones were so soft, her whole action so motherly, that one would have thought it was a parent ministering to her daughter, rather than a slave serving a beggar. And this beggar, too, looked so happy, spoke so cheerily, and said such beautiful things, that Syra lingered over her work to listen to her, and gaze on her.

It was at this moment that Agnes came for her appointed interview, and Fabiola insisted on accompanying her to the door. But when Agnes softly raised the curtain, and caught a sight of the scene before her, she beckoned to Fabiola to look in, enjoining silence by her gesture. The blind girl was opposite, and her voluntary servant on one side, unconscious of witnesses. The heart of Fabiola was touched; she had never imagined that there was such a thing as disinterested love on earth between strangers; as to charity, it was a word unknown to Greece or Rome. She retreated quietly, with a tear in her eye, and said to Agnes, as she took leave:

“I must retire; that girl, as you know, proved to me this afternoon that a slave may have a head; she has now shown me that she may have a heart. I was amazed, when, a few hours ago, you asked me if I did not love a slave. I think, now, I could almost love Syra. I half regret that I have agreed to part with her.”

As she went back into the court, Agnes entered the room, and laughing, said:

“So, Cæcilia, I have found out your secret at last. This is the friend whose food you have always said was so much better than mine, that you would never eat at my house. Well, if the dinner is not better, at any rate I agree that you have fallen in with a better hostess.”

“Oh, don’t say so, sweet Lady Agnes,” answered theblind girl: “it is the dinner indeed that is better. You have plenty of opportunities for exercising charity; but a poor slave can only do so by finding some one still poorer, and helpless, like me. That thought makes her food by far the sweetest.”

“Well, you are right,” said Agnes, “and I am not sorry to have you present, to hear the good news I bring to Syra. It will makeyouhappy too. Fabiola has allowed me to become your mistress, Syra, and to take you with me. To-morrow you shall be free, and a dear sister to me.”

Cæcilia clapped her hands with joy, and throwing her arms round Syra’s neck, exclaimed: “Oh, how good! How happy you will now be, dear Syra!”

But Syra was deeply troubled, and replied with faltering voice, “O good and gentle lady, you have been kind indeed, to think so much about one like me. But pardon me if I entreat you to remain as I am; I assure you, dear Cæcilia, I am quite happy here.”

“But why wish to stay?” asked Agnes.

“Because,” rejoined Syra, “it is most perfect to abide with God, in the state wherein we have been called.[32]I own this is not the one in which I was born; I have been brought to it by others.” A burst of tears interrupted her for a moment, and then she went on. “But so much the more clear is it to me, that God has willed me to serve Him in this condition. How can I wish to leave it?”

“Well then,” said Agnes, still more eagerly, “we can easily manage it. I will not free you, and you shall be my bondwoman. That will be just the same.”

“No, no,” said Syra, smiling, “that will never do. Our great Apostle’s instructions to us are: ‘Servants be subject to your masters with all fear, not only to the good and gentle, but also to the froward.’[33]I am far from saying that my mistressis one of these; but you, noble Lady Agnes, are too good and gentle for me. Where would be my cross, if I lived with you? You do not know how proud and headstrong I am by nature; and I should fear for myself, if I had not some pain and humiliation.”

Agnes was almost overcome; but she was more eager than ever to possess such a treasure of virtue, and said, “I see, Syra, that no motive addressed to your own interest can move you, I must therefore use a more selfish plea. I want to have you with me, that I may improve by your advice and example. Come, you will not refuse such a request.”

“Selfish,” replied the slave, “you can never be. And therefore I will appeal to yourself from your request. You know Fabiola, and you love her. What a noble soul, and what a splendid intellect she possesses! What great qualities and high accomplishments, if they only reflected the light of truth! And how jealously does she guard in herself that pearl of virtues, which only we know how to prize! What a truly great Christian she would make!”

“Go on, for God’s sake, dear Syra,” broke out Agnes, all eagerness. “And do you hope for it?”

“It is my prayer day and night; it is my chief thought and aim; it is the occupation of my life. I will try to win her by patience, by assiduity, even by such unusual discussions as we have held to-day. And when all is exhausted, I have one resource more.”

“What is that?” both asked.

“To give my life for her conversion. I know that a poor slave like me has few chances of martyrdom. Still, a fiercer persecution is said to be approaching, and perhaps it will not disdain such humble victims. But be that as God pleases, my life for her soul is placed in His hands. And oh, dearest, best of ladies,” she exclaimed, falling on her knees andbedewing Agnes’s hand with tears, “do not come in thus between me and my prize.”

“You have conquered, sister Syra (oh! never again call me lady),” said Agnes. “Remain at your post; such single-hearted, generous virtue must triumph. It is too sublime for so homely a sphere as my household.”

“And I, for my part,” subjoined Cæcilia, with a look of arch gravity, “say that she has said one very wicked thing, and told a great story, this evening.”

“What is that, my pet?” asked Syra, laughing.

“Why, you said that I was wiser and better than you, because I declined eating some trumpery delicacy, which would have gratified my palate for a few minutes, at the expense of an act of greediness; while you have given up liberty, happiness, the free exercise of your religion, and have offered to give up life itself, for the salvation of one who is your tyrant and tormentor. Oh, fie! how could you tell me such a thing!”

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