Moses receiving the Law, from a picture in the Cemetery of “Inter duos Lauros.”
Moses receiving the Law, from a picture in the Cemetery of “Inter duos Lauros.”
Moses receiving the Law, from a picture in the Cemetery of “Inter duos Lauros.”
THE memorable plot which the black slave betrayed to Corvinus, was one to which allusion has already been made, in the conversation between Fulvius and his guardian. He was convinced from the blind martyr’s unsuspecting admissions, that Agnes was a Christian, and he believed he had now two strings to his bow; either he could terrify her into marriage with himself, or he could destroy her, and obtain a good share of her wealth by confiscation. He was nerved for this second alternative by the taunts and exhortations of Eurotas; but, despairing of obtaining another interview, he wrote her a respectful, but pressing letter, descriptive of his disinterested attachment to her, and entreating her to accept his suit. There was but the faintest hint at the end, that duty might compel him to take another course, if humble petition did not prevail.
To this application he received a calm, well-bred, but unmistakable refusal; a stern, final, and hopeless rejection. But more, the letter stated in clear terms, that the writer was already espoused to the spotless Lamb, and could admit from no perishable being expressions of personal attachment. This rebuff steeled his heart against pity; but he determined to act prudently.
In the meantime, Fabiola, seeing the determination ofSebastian not to fly, conceived the romantic idea of saving him, in spite of himself, by extorting his pardon from the emperor. She did not know the depth of wickedness in man’s heart. She thought the tyrant might fume for a moment, but that he would never condemn a man twice to death. Some pity and mercy, she thought, must linger in his breast; and her earnest pleading and tears would extract them, as heat does the hidden balsam from the hard wood. She accordingly sent a petition for an audience; and knowing the covetousness of the man, presumed, as she said, to offer him a slight token of her own and her late father’s loyal attachment. This was a ring with jewels of rare beauty, and immense value. The present was accepted; but she was merely told to attend with her memorial at the Palatine on the 20th, in common with other petitioners, and wait for the emperor’s descent by the great staircase, on his way to sacrifice. Unencouraging as was this answer, she resolved to risk any thing, and do her best.
The appointed day came; and Fabiola, in her mourning habits, worn both as a suppliant, and for her father’s death, took her stand in a row of far more wretched creatures than herself, mothers, children, sisters, who held petitions for mercy, for those clearest to them, now in dungeons or mines. She felt the little hope she had entertained die within her at the sight of so much wretchedness, too much for it all to expect favor. But fainter grew its last spark, at every step that the tyrant took down the marble stairs, though she saw her brilliant ring sparkling on his coarse hand. For on each step he snatched a paper from some sorrowful suppliant, looked at it scornfully, and either tore it up, or dashed it on the ground. Only here and there, he handed one to his secretary, a man scarcely less imperious than himself.
It was now nearly Fabiola’s turn: the emperor was onlytwo steps above her, and her heart beat violently, not from fear of man, but from anxiety about Sebastian’s fate. She would have prayed, had she known how, or to whom. Maximian was stretching out his hand to take a paper offered to him, when he drew back, and turned round, on hearing his name most unceremoniously and peremptorily called out. Fabiola looked up too; for she knew the voice.
Opposite to her, high in the white marble wall, she had observed an open window, corniced in yellow marble, which gave light to a back corridor leading to where Irene’s apartments were. She now looked up, guided by the voice, and in the dark panel of the window, a beautiful but awful picture was seen. It was Sebastian, wan and thin, who, with features almost etherealized, calm and stern, as if no longer capable of passion, or strong emotion, stood there before them; his lacerated breast and arms appearing amidst the loose drapery he had thrown around him. For he had heard the familiar trumpet-notes, which told him of the emperor’s approach, and he had risen, and crept thus far, to greet him.[190]
“Maximian!” he cried out, in a hollow but distinct voice.
“Who art thou, sirrah! that makest so free with thine emperor’s name?” asked the tyrant, turning upon him.
“I am come as from the dead, to warn thee that the day of wrath and vengeance is fast approaching. Thou hast spilt the blood of God’s Saints upon the pavement of this city; thou hast cast their holy bodies into the river, or flung them away upon the dunghills at the gates. Thou hast pulled down God’s temples, and profaned His altars, and rifled the inheritance of His poor. For these, and thine own foul crimes and lewdnesses, thine injustices and oppressions, thy covetousness and thy pride, God hath judged thee, and His wrath shall soon overtake thee; and thou shalt die the death of the violent; and God will give His Church an emperor after His own heart. And thy memory shall be accursed through the whole world, till the end of time. Repent thee, while thou hast time, impious man; and ask forgiveness of God, in the name of Him, the Crucified, whom thou hast persecuted till now.”
Deep silence was held while these words were fully uttered. The emperor seemed under the influence of a paralyzing awe; for soon recognizing Sebastian, he felt as if standing in the presence of the dead. But quickly recovering himself and his passion, he exclaimed: “Ho! some of you, go round instantly and bring him before me” (he did not like to pronounce his name). “Hyphax here! Where is Hyphax? I saw him just now.”
But the Moor had at once recognized Sebastian, and run off to his quarters. “Ha! he is gone, I see; then here, you dolt, what’s your name?” (addressing Corvinus, who was attending his father,) “go to the Numidian court, and summon Hyphax here directly.”
With a heavy heart Corvinus went on his errand. Hyphax had told his tale, and put his men in order of defence. Only one entrance at the end of the court was left open; and when the messenger had reached it, he durst not advance. Fifty men stood along each side of the space, with Hyphax and Jubala at the opposite end. Silent and immovable, with their dark chests and arms bare, each with his arrow fixed, and pointed to the door, and the string ready drawn, they looked like an avenue of basalt statues, leading to an Egyptian temple.
“Hyphax,” said Corvinus, in a tremulous voice, “the emperor sends for you.”
“Tell his majesty, respectfully, from me,” replied theAfrican, “that my men have sworn, that no man passes that threshold, coming in, or going out, without receiving, through his breast or his back, a hundred shafts into his heart; until the emperor shall have sent us a token of forgiveness for every offence.”
Corvinus hastened back with this message, and the emperor received it with a laugh. They were men with whom he could not afford to quarrel; for he relied on them in battle, or insurrection, for picking out the leaders. “The cunning rascals!” he exclaimed. “There, take that trinket to Hyphax’s black spouse.” And he gave him Fabiola’s splendid ring. He hastened back, delivered his gracious embassy, and threw the ring across. In an instant every bow dropt, and every string relaxed. Jubala, delighted, sprang forward and caught the ring. A heavy blow from her husband’s fist felled her to the ground, and was greeted with a shout of applause. The savage seized the jewel; and the woman rose, to fear that she had only exchanged one slavery for a worse.
Hyphax screened himself behind the imperial command. “If,” he said, “you had allowed us to send an arrow through his head or heart, all would have been straight. As it was, we are not responsible.”
“At any rate, I will myself see my work done properly this time,” said Maximian. “Two of you fellows with clubs come here.”
Two of his attendant executioners came from behind; Sebastian, scarcely able to stand, was also there; mild and intrepid. “Now, my men,” said the barbarian, “I must not have any blood spilt on these stairs; so you knock the life out of him with your cudgels; make clean work of it. Madam, what is your petition?”—stretching out his hand, to Fabiola, whom he recognized, and so addressed more respectfully. She was horrified and disgusted, and almostfainting at the sight before her; so she said, “Sire, I fear it is too late!”
“Why too late?” looking at the paper. A flash came from his eye, as he said to her: “What! You knew that Sebastian was alive? Are you a Christian?”
“No, sire,” she replied. Why did the denial almost dry up in her throat? She could not for her life have said she was any thing else. Ah! Fabiola, thy day is not far off.
“But, as you said just now,” replied the emperor, more serene, returning her petition, “I fear it is too late; I think that blow must have been theictus gratiosus.”[191]
“I feel faint, sire,” said she, respectfully; “may I retire?”
“By all means. But, by the bye, I have to thank you for the beautiful ring which you sent, and which I have given to Hyphax’s wife” (lately her own slave!). “It will look more brilliant on a black hand than even on mine. Adieu!” and he kissed his hand with a wicked smile, as if there were no martyr’s body near to witness against him. He was right; a heavy blow on the head had proved fatal; and Sebastian was safe where he had so longed to be. He bore with him a double palm, and received a twofold crown. Yet still, an ignominious end before the world; beaten to death without ceremony, while the emperor conversed. How much of martyrdom is in its disgrace! Woe to us when we know that our sufferings earn us honor!
The tyrant, seeing his work completed, ordered that Sebastian at least should not be cast into the Tiber nor on a dunghill. “Put plenty of weights to his body,” he added, “and throw it into the Cloaca,[192]to rot there, andbe the food of vermin. The Christians at least shall not have it.” This was done; and the Saint’s Acts inform us, that in the night he appeared to the holy matron Lucina, and directed her where to find his sacred remains. She obeyed his summons, and they were buried with honor, where now stands his basilica.
Christ blessing a Child, from a picture in the Cemetery of the Latin Way.
Christ blessing a Child, from a picture in the Cemetery of the Latin Way.
Christ blessing a Child, from a picture in the Cemetery of the Latin Way.
THERE are critical days in the life of man and of mankind. Not merely the days of Marathon, of Cannæ, or of Lepanto, in which a different result might have influenced the social or political fate of mankind. But it is probable that Columbus could look back upon not only the day, but the precise hour, the decision of which secured to the world all that he taught and gave it, and to himself the singular place which he holds among its worthies. And each of us, little and insignificant as he may be, has had his critical day; his day of choice, which has decided his fate through life; his day of Providence, which altered his position or his relations to others; his day of grace, when the spiritual conquered the material. In whatever way it has been, every soul, like Jerusalem,[193]has haditsday.
And so with Fabiola, has not all been working up towards a crisis? Emperor and slave, father and guest, the good and the wicked, Christian and heathen, rich and poor; then life and death, joy and sorrow, learning and simplicity, silence and conversation, have they not all come as agents, pulling at her mind in opposite ways, yet all directing her noble and generous, though haughty and impetuous, soul one way, as the breeze and the rudder struggle against one another, only to determine the ship’s single path? By what shall the resolution of these contending forces be determined? That restsnot with man; wisdom, not philosophy, can decide. We have been engaged with events commemorated on the 20th of January; let the reader look, and see what comes on the following day in his calendar, and he will agree it must be an important day in our little narrative.
From the audience Fabiola retired to the apartments of Irene, where she found nothing but desolation and sorrow. She sympathized fully with the grief around her, but she saw and felt that there was a difference between her affliction and theirs. There was a buoyancy about them; there was almost an exultation breaking out through their distress; their clouds were sun-lit and brightened at times. Hers was a dead and sullen, a dull and heavy gloom, as if she had sustained a hopeless loss. Her search after Christianity, as associated with anything amiable or intelligent, seemed at an end. Her desired teacher, or informant, was gone. When the crowd had moved away from the palace, she took affectionate leave of the widow and her daughters; but, some way or other, she could not like the heathen one as she loved her sister.
She sat alone at home, and tried to read; she took up volume after volume of favorite works on Death, on Fortitude, on Friendship, on Virtue; and every one of them seemed insipid, unsound, and insincere. She plunged into a deeper and a deeper melancholy, which lasted till towards evening, when she was disturbed by a letter being put into her hand. The Greek slave, Graja, who brought it in, retired to the other end of the room, alarmed and perplexed by what she witnessed. For her mistress had scarcely glanced over the note, than she leaped up wildly from her seat, threw her hair into disorder with her hands, which she pressed, as in agony, on her temples, stood thus for a moment, looking up with an unnatural stare in her eyes, and then sank heavily down again on her chair with a deep groan. Thus she remainedfor some minutes, holding the letter in both her hands, with her arms relaxed, apparently unconscious.
“Who brought this letter?” she then asked, quite collected.
“A soldier, madam,” answered the maid.
“Ask him to come here.”
While her errand was being delivered, she composed herself, and gathered up her hair. As soon as the soldier appeared she held this brief dialogue:
“Whence do you come?”
“I am on guard at the Tullian prison.”
“Who gave you the letter?”
“The Lady Agnes herself.”
“On what cause is the poor child there?”
“On the accusation of a man named Fulvius, for being a Christian.”
“For nothing else?”
“For nothing, I am sure.”
“Then we shall soon set that matter right. I can give witness to the contrary. Tell her I will come presently; and take this for your trouble.”
The soldier retired, and Fabiola was left alone. When there was something to do her mind was at once energetic and concentrated, though afterwards the tenderness of womanhood might display itself the more painfully. She wrapped herself close up, proceeded alone to the prison, and was at once conducted to the separate cell, which Agnes had obtained in consideration of her rank, backed by her parents’ handsome largitions.
“What is the meaning of this, Agnes?” eagerly inquired Fabiola, after a warm embrace.
“I was arrested a few hours ago, and brought hither.”
“And is Fulvius fool enough, as well as scoundrel, to trump up an accusation against you, which five minutes willconfute? I will go to Tertullus myself, and contradict his absurd charge at once.”
“What charge, dearest?”
“Why, that you are a Christian.”
“And so I am, thank God!” replied Agnes, making on herself the sign of the cross.
The announcement did not strike Fabiola like a thunderbolt, nor rouse her, nor stagger her, nor perplex her. Sebastian’s death had taken all edge or heaviness from it. She had found that faith existing in what she had considered the type of every manly virtue; she was not surprised to find it in her, whom she had loved as the very model of womanly perfection. The simple grandeur of that child’s excellence, her guileless innocence, and unexcepting kindness, she had almost worshipped. It made Fabiola’s difficulties less, it brought her problem nearer to a solution, to find two such peerless beings to be not mere chance-grown plants, but springing from the same seed. She bowed her head in a kind of reverence for the child, and asked her, “How long have you been so?”
“All my life, dear Fabiola; I sucked the faith, as we say, with my mother’s milk.”
“And why did you conceal it from me?”
“Because I saw your violent prejudices against us; how you abhorred us as practisers of the most ridiculous superstitions, as perpetrators of the most odious abominations. I perceived how you contemned us as unintellectual, uneducated, unphilosophical, and unreasonable. You would not hear a word about us; and the only object of hatred to your generous mind was the Christian name.”
“True, dearest Agnes; yet I think that had I known that you, or Sebastian, was a Christian, I could not have hated it. I could have loved any thing in you.”
“You think so now, Fabiola; but you know not the forceof universal prejudice, the weight of falsehood daily repeated. How many noble minds, fine intellects, and loving hearts have they enslaved, and induced to believe us to be all that we are not, something even worse than the worst of others!”
“Well, Agnes, it is selfish in me to argue thus with you in your present position. You will of course compel Fulvius toprovethat you are a Christian.”
“Oh, no! dear Fabiola; I have already confessed it, and intend to do so again publicly in the morning.”
“In the morning!—what, to-morrow?” asked Fabiola, shocked at the idea of any thing so immediate.
“Yes, to-morrow. To prevent any clamor or disturbance about me (though I suspect few people will care much), I am to be interrogated early, and summary proceedings will be taken. Is not that good news, dear?” asked Agnes eagerly, seizing her cousin’s hands. And then putting on one of her ecstatic looks, she exclaimed, “Behold, what I have long coveted, I already see; what I have hoped for, I hold safe; to Him alone I feel already associated in heaven, whom here on earth I have loved with all devotedness.[194]Oh! is He not beautiful, Fabiola, lovelier far than the angels who surround Him! How sweet His smile! how mild His eye! how bland the whole expression of His face! And that sweetest and most gracious Lady, who ever accompanies Him, our Queen and Mistress, who loves Him alone, how winningly doth she beckon me forward to join her train! I come! I come!—They are departed, Fabiola; but they return early for me to-morrow; early, mind, and we part no more.”
Fabiola felt her own heart swell and heave, as if a new element were entering in. She knew not what it was, but it seemed something better than a mere human emotion. Shehad not yet heard the name of Grace. Agnes, however, saw the favorable change in her spirit, and inwardly thanked God for it. She begged her cousin to return before dawn to her, for their final farewell.
At this same time a consultation was being held at the house of the prefect, between that worthy functionary and his worthier son. The reader had better listen to it, to learn its purport.
“Certainly,” said the magistrate, “if the old sorceress was right in one thing, she ought to be in the other. I will answer, from experience, how powerful is wealth in conquering any resistance.”
“And you will allow, too,” rejoined Corvinus, “from the enumeration we have made, that among the competitors for Fabiola’s hand, there has not been one who could not justly be rather called an aspirant after her fortune.”
“Yourself included, my dear Corvinus.”
“Yes, so far: but not if I succeed in offering her, with myself, the lady Agnes’s great wealth.”
“And in a manner too, methinks, that will more easily gain upon what I hear of her generous and lofty disposition. Giving her that wealth independent of conditions, and then offering yourself to her, will put her under one of two obligations, either to accept you as her husband, or throw you back the fortune.”
“Admirable, father! I never saw the second alternative before. Do you think there is no possibility of securing it except through her?”
“None whatever. Fulvius, of course, will apply for his share; and the probability is, that the emperor will declare he intends to take it all for himself. For he hates Fulvius. But if I propose a more popular and palpably reasonable plan, of giving the property to the nearest relation, who worships the gods—this Fabiola does, don’t she?”
“Certainly, father.”
“I think he will embrace it: while I am sure there is no chance of his making a free gift to me. The proposal from a judge would enrage him.”
“Then how will you manage it, father?”
“I will have an imperial rescript prepared during the night, ready for signature; and I will proceed immediately after the execution to the palace, magnify the unpopularity which is sure to follow it, lay it all on Fulvius, and show the emperor how his granting the property to the next in the settlement of it, will redound greatly to his credit and glory. He is as vain as he is cruel and rapacious; and one vice must be made to fight another.”
“Nothing could be better, my dear father; I shall retire to rest with an easy mind. To-morrow will be the critical day of my life. All my future depends upon whether I am accepted or rejected.”
“I only wish,” added Tertullus, rising, “that I could have seen this peerless lady, and sounded the depths of her philosophy, before your final bargain was struck.”
“Fear not, father: she is well worthy of being your daughter-in-law. Yes, to-morrow is indeed the turning-point of my fortunes.”
Even Corvinus can have his critical day. Why not Fabiola?
While this domestic interview was going on, a conference was taking place between Fulvius and his amiable uncle. The latter, entering late, found his nephew sitting sullen and alone in the house, and thus accosted him:
“Well, Fulvius, is she secured?”
“She is, uncle, as fast as bars and walls can make her; but her spirit is free and independent as ever.”
“Never mind that: sharp steel makes short work of spirit. Is her fate certain? and are its consequences sure?”
“Why, if nothing else happens, the first is safe; the second have still to encounter imperial caprice. But I own I feel pain and remorse at sacrificing so young a life, and for an insecure result.”
“Come, Fulvius,” said the old man sternly, looking as cold as a grey rock in the morning mist; “no softness, I hope, in this matter. Do you remember what day is to-morrow?”
“Yes, the twelfth before the calends of February.”[195]
“The critical day always for you. It was on this day that to gain another’s wealth, you committed——”
“Peace, peace!” interrupted Fulvius in agony. “Why will you always remind me of every thing I most wish to forget?”
“Because of this: you wish to forget yourself, and that must not be. I must take from you every pretence to be guided by conscience, virtue, or even honor. It is folly to affect compassion for any one’s life, who stands in the way of your fortune, after what you did toher.”
Fulvius bit his lip in silent rage, and covered his crimson face with his hands. Eurotas roused him by saying: “Well, then, to-morrow is another, and probably a final critical day for you. Let us calmly weigh its prospects. You will go to the emperor, and ask for your rightful share in the confiscated property. Suppose it is granted?”
“I will sell it as quick as possible, pay my debts, and retire to some country where my name has never been heard.”
“Suppose your claims are rejected?”
“Impossible, impossible!” exclaimed Fulvius, racked by the very idea; “it is my right, hardly earned. It cannot be denied me.”
“Quietly, my young friend; let us discuss the matter coolly. Remember our proverb: ‘From the stirrup to thesaddle there has been many a fall.’Supposeonly that your rights are refused you.”
“Then I am a ruined man. I have no other prospect before me, of retrieving my fortunes here. Still I must fly hence.”
“Good: and what do you owe at Janus’s arch?”[196]
“A good couple of hundred sestertia,[197]between principal and compound interest at fifty per cent, to that unconscionable Jew Ephraim.”
“On what security?”
“On my sure expectation of this lady’s estates.”
“And if you are disappointed, do you think he will let you fly?”
“Not if he knows it, most assuredly. But we must be prepared from this moment for any emergency; and that with the utmost secrecy.”
“Leave that to me, Fulvius; you see how eventful the issue of to-morrow may be to you, or rather of to-day; for morning is approaching. Life or death to you hang upon it; it is the great day of your existence. Courage then, or rather an inflexible determination, steel you to work out its destiny!”
A Monogram of Christ, found in the Catacombs.
A Monogram of Christ, found in the Catacombs.
A Monogram of Christ, found in the Catacombs.
THE day is not yet dawning, and nevertheless we speak of having reached its second part. How may this be? Gentle reader, have we not led you to its first vespers, divided as they are between Sebastian of yesterday, and Agnes of to-day? Have not the two sung them together, without jealousy, and with fraternal impartiality, the one from the heaven which he ascended in the morning, the other from the dungeon into which she descended in the evening? Glorious Church of Christ! great in the unclashing combination of thy unity, stretching from heaven to beneath the earth, wherever exists a prison-house of the just.
From his lodgings Fulvius went out into the night-air, which was crisp and sharp, to cool his blood, and still his throbbing brows. He wandered about, almost without any purpose; but found himself imperceptibly drawing nearer and nearer to the Tullian prison. As he was literally without affection, what could be his attraction thither? It was a strangely compounded feeling, made up of as bitter ingredients as ever filled the poisoner’s cup. There was gnawing remorse; there was baffled pride; there was goading avarice; there was humbling shame; there was a terrible sense of the approaching consummation of his villany. It was true, he had beenrejected, scorned, baffled by a mere child, while her fortune was necessary for his rescue from beggary and death,—so at least he reasoned; yet he would still rather have her hand than her head. Her murder appeared revoltingly atrocious to him, unless absolutely inevitable. So he would give her another chance.
He was now at the prison gate, of which he possessed the watchword. He pronounced it, entered, and, at his desire, was conducted to his victim’s cell. She did not flutter, nor run into a corner, like a bird into whose cage the hawk has found entrance; calm and intrepid, she stood before him.
“Respect me here, Fulvius, at least,” she gently said; “I have but a few hours to live: let them be spent in peace.”
“Madam,” he replied, “I have come to lengthen them, if you please, to years; and, instead of peace, I offer happiness.”
“Surely, sir, if I understand you, the time is past for this sad vanity. Thus to address one whom you have delivered over to death, is at best a mockery.”
“It is not so, gentle lady; your fate is in your own hands; only your own obstinacy will give you over to death. I have come to renew, once more, my offer, and with it that of life. It is your last chance.”
“Have I not before told you that I am a Christian; and that I would forfeit a thousand lives rather than betray my faith?”
“But now I ask you no longer to do this. The gates of the prison are yet open to me. Fly with me; and, in spite of the imperial decrees, you shall be a Christian, and yet live.”
“Then have I not clearly told you that I am already espoused to my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, and that to Him alone I keep eternal faith?”
“Folly and madness! Persevere in it till to-morrow, andthat may be awarded to you which you fear more than death, and which will drive this illusion forever from your mind.”
“I fear nothing for Christ. For know, that I have an angel ever guarding me, who will not suffer his Master’s handmaid to suffer scorn.[198]But now, cease this unworthy importunity, and leave me the last privilege of the condemned—solitude.”
Fulvius had been gradually losing patience, and could no longer restrain his passion. Rejected again, baffled once more by a child, this time with the sword hanging over her neck! A flame irrepressible broke out from the smouldering heat within him; and, in an instant, the venomous ingredients that we have described as mingled in his heart, were distilled into one black, solitary drop,—HATRED. With flashing look, and furious gesture, he broke forth:
“Wretched woman, I give thee one more opportunity of rescuing thyself from destruction. Which wilt thou have, life with me, or death?”
“Death even I will choose for her, rather than life with a monster like thee!” exclaimed a voice just within the door.
“She shall have it,” he rejoined, clenching his fist, and darting a mad look at the new speaker; “and thou too, if again thou darest to fling thy baneful shadow across my path.”
Fabiola was alone for the last time with Agnes. She had been for some minutes unobserved watching the contest, between what would have appeared to her, had she been a Christian, an angel of light and a spirit of darkness; and truly Agnes looked like the first, if human creature ever did. In preparation for her coming festival of full espousals to the Lamb, when she should sign her contract of everlasting love,as He had done, in blood, she had thrown over the dark garments of her mourning a white and spotless bridal robe. In the midst of that dark prison, lighted by a solitary lamp, she looked radiant and almost dazzling; while her tempter, wrapped up in his dark cloak, crouching down to rush out of the low door of the dungeon, looked like a black and vanquished demon, plunging into an abyss beneath.
Then Fabiola looked into her countenance, and thought she had never seen it half so sweet. No trace of anger, of fear, of flurry, or agitation was there; no paleness, no flush, no alternations of hectic excitement and pallid depression. Her eyes beamed with more than their usual mild intelligence; her smile was as placid and cheerful as it ever was, when they discoursed together. Then there was a noble air about her, a greatness of look and manner, which Fabiola would have compared to that mien and stateliness, and that ambrosial atmosphere by which, in poetical mythology, a being of a higher sphere was recognized on earth.[199]It was not inspiration, for it was passionless; but it was such expression and manner, as her highest conceptions of virtue and intellect, combined in the soul, might be supposed to stamp upon the outward form. Hence her feelings passed beyond love into a higher range; they were more akin to reverence.
Agnes took one of her hands in each of her own, crossed them upon her own calm bosom, and looking into her face with a gaze of blandest earnestness, said:
“Fabiola, I have one dying request to make you. You have never refused me any: I am sure you will not this.”
“Speak not thus to me, dearest Agnes; you must not request; you command me now.”
“Then promise me, that you will immediately apply your mind to master the doctrines of Christianity. I know youwill embrace them; and then you will no longer be to me what you are now.”
“And what is that?”
“Dark, dark, dearest Fabiola. When I look upon you thus, I see in you a noble intellect, a generous disposition, an affectionate heart, a cultivated mind, a fine moral feeling, and a virtuous life. What can be desired more in woman? and yet over all these splendid gifts there hangs a cloud, to my eyes, of gloomy shadow, the shade of death. Drive it away, and all will be lightsome and bright.”
“I feel it, dear Agnes,—I feel it. Standing before you, I seem to be as a black spot compared to your brightness. And how, embracing Christianity, shall I become light like you?”
“You must pass, Fabiola, through the torrent that sunders us” (Fabiola started, recollecting her dream). “Waters of refreshment shall flow over your body, and oil of gladness shall embalm your flesh; and the soul shall be washed clean as driven snow, and the heart be softened as the babe’s. From that bath you will come forth a new creature, born again to a new and immortal life.”
“And shall I lose all that you have but just now prized in me?” asked Fabiola, somewhat downcast.
“As the gardener,” answered the martyr, “selects some hardy and robust, but unprofitable plant, and on it engrafts but a small shoot of one that is sweet and tender, and the flowers and fruits of this belong to the first, and yet deprive it of no grace, no grandeur, no strength that it had before, so will the new life you shall receive ennoble, elevate, and sanctify (you can scarcely understand this word), the valuable gifts of nature and education which you already possess. What a glorious being Christianity will make you, Fabiola!”
“What a new world you are leading me to, dear Agnes! Oh, that you were not leaving me outside its very threshold!”
“Hark!” exclaimed Agnes, in an ecstasy of joy. “They come, they come!Youhear the measured tramp of the soldiers in the gallery. They are the bridesmen coming to summon me. But I see on high the white-robed bridesmaids borne on the bright clouds of morning, and beckoning me forward. Yes, my lamp is trimmed, and I go forth to meet the Bridegroom. Farewell, Fabiola; weep not for me. Oh, that I could make you feel, as I do, the happiness of dying for Christ! And now I will speak a word to you which I never have addressed to you before,—God bless you!” And she made the sign of the Cross on Fabiola’s forehead. An embrace, convulsive on Fabiola’s part, calm and tender on Agnes’s, was their last earthly greeting. The one hastened home, filled with a new and generous purpose; the other resigned herself to the shame-stricken guard.
Over the first part of the martyr’s trials we cast a veil of silence, though ancient Fathers, and the Church in her offices, dwell upon it, as doubling her crown.[200]Suffice it to say, that her angel protected her from harm;[201]and that the purity of her presence converted a den of infamy into a holy and lovely sanctuary.[202]It was still early in the morning when she stood again before the tribunal of the prefect, in the Roman Forum; unchanged and unscathed, without a blush upon her smiling countenance, or a pang of sorrow in her innocent heart. Only her unshorn hair, the symbol of virginity, which had been letloose, flowed down, in golden waves, upon her snow-white dress.[203]
It was a lovely morning. Many will remember it to have been a beautiful day on its anniversary, as they have walked out of the Nomentan gate, now the Porta Pia, towards the church which bears our virgin-martyr’s name, to see blessed upon her altar the two lambs, from whose wool are made the palliums sent by the Pope to the archbishops of his communion. Already the almond-trees are hoary, not with frost, but with blossoms; the earth is being loosened round the vines, and spring seems latent in the swelling buds, which are watching for the signal from the southern breeze, to burst and expand.[204]The atmosphere, rising into a cloudless sky, has just that temperature that one loves, of a sun, already vigorous, not heating, but softening, the slightly frosty air. Such we have frequently experienced St. Agnes’s day, together with joyful thousands, hastening to her shrine.
The judge was sitting in the open Forum, and a sufficient crowd formed a circle round the charmed space, which few, save Christians, loved to enter. Among the spectators were two whose appearance attracted general attention; they stood opposite each other, at the ends of the semicircle formed by the multitude. One was a youth, enveloped in his toga, with a slouching hat over his eyes, so that his features could not be distinguished. The other was a lady of aristocratic mien, tall and erect, such as one does not expect to meet on such an occasion. Wrapped close about her, and so ample as to veil her from head to foot, like the beautiful ancient statue, known among artists by the name of Modesty,[205]she had a scarf or mantle of Indian workmanship, woven in richest pattern ofcrimson, purple, and gold, a garment truly imperial, and less suitable, than even female presence, to this place of doom and blood. A slave, or servant, of superior class attended her, carefully veiled also, like her mistress. The lady’s mind seemed intent on one only object, as she stood immovable, leaning with her elbow on a marble post.
Chains for the Martyrs, after a picture found in 1841, in a crypt at Milan.
Chains for the Martyrs, after a picture found in 1841, in a crypt at Milan.
Chains for the Martyrs, after a picture found in 1841, in a crypt at Milan.
Agnes was introduced by her guards into the open space, and stood intrepid, facing the tribunal. Her thoughts seemed to be far away; and she took no notice even of those two who, till she appeared, had been objects of universal observation.
“Why is she unfettered?” asked the prefect angrily.
“She does not need it: she walks so readily,” answered Catulus; “and she is so young.”
“But she is obstinate as the oldest. Put manacles on her hands at once.”
The executioner turned over a quantity of such prison ornaments,—to Christian eyes really such,—and at length selected a pair as light and small as he could find, and placed them round her wrists. Agnes playfully, and with a smile,
The judge angrily reproved the executioner for his hesitation, and bid him at once do his duty.
The judge angrily reproved the executioner for his hesitation, and bid him at once do his duty.
The judge angrily reproved the executioner for his hesitation, and bid him at once do his duty.
shook her hands, and they fell, like St. Paul’s viper, clattering at her feet.[206]
“They are the smallest we have, sir,” said the softened executioner: “one so young ought to wear other bracelets.”
“Silence, man!” rejoined the exasperated judge, who, turning to the prisoner, said, in a blander tone:
“Agnes, I pity thy youth, thy station, and the bad education thou hast received. I desire, if possible, to save thee. Think better while thou hast time. Renounce the false and pernicious maxims of Christianity, obey the imperial edicts, and sacrifice to the gods.”
“It is useless,” she replied, “to tempt me longer. My resolution is unalterable. I despise thy false divinities, and can only love and serve the one living God. Eternal Ruler, open wide the heavenly gates, until lately closed to man. Blessed Christ, call to Thee the soul that cleaveth unto Thee: victim first to Thee by virginal consecration; now to Thy Father by martyrdom’s immolation.”[207]
“I waste time, I see,” said the impatient prefect, who saw symptoms of compassion rising in the multitude. “Secretary, write the sentence. We condemn Agnes, for contempt of the imperial edicts, to be punished by the sword.”
“On what road, and at what mile-stone, shall the judgment be executed?”[208]asked the headsman.
“Let it be carried into effect at once,” was the reply.
Agnes raised for one moment her hands and eyes to heaven, then calmly knelt down. With her own hands shedrew forward her silken hair over her head, and exposed her neck to the blow.[209]A pause ensued, for the executioner was trembling with emotion, and could not wield his sword.[210]As the child knelt alone, in her white robe, with her head inclined, her arms modestly crossed upon her bosom, and her amber locks hanging almost to the ground, and veiling her features, she might not unaptly have been compared to some rare plant, of which the slender stalk, white as the lily, bent with the luxuriancy of its golden blossom.
The judge angrily reproved the executioner for his hesitation, and bid him at once do his duty. The man passed the back of his rough left hand across his eyes, as he raised his sword. It was seen to flash for an instant in the air; and the next moment, flower and stem were lying scarcely displaced on the ground. It might have been taken for the prostration of prayer, had not the white robe been in that minute dyed into a rich crimson—washed in the blood of the Lamb.
The man on the judge’s right hand had looked with unflinching eye upon the stroke, and his lip curled in a wicked triumph over the fallen. The lady opposite had turned away her head, till the murmur, that follows a suppressed breath in a crowd, told her all was over. She then boldly advanced forward, unwound from round her person her splendid brocaded mantle, and stretched it as a pall, over the mangled body. A burst of applause followed this graceful act of womanly feeling,[211]as the lady stood, now in the garb of deepest mourning, before the tribunal.
“Sir,” she said in a tone clear and distinct, but full of emotion, “grant me one petition. Let not the rude hands of