A Christian But a Roman Part 8

Sophronia silently drew the dagger from beneath her girdle, and looked fearlessly around the circle of faces.

Carinus remained fixed in the att.i.tude in which this unexpected movement had surprised him. Every one stood still as if spellbound.

aevius alone did not lose his presence of mind. With a smooth smile on his false lips, he glided nearer to the maiden.

"Fairest virgin, do not forget that you are a Christian. Your G.o.d punishes sternly those who open the gates of death by force; and your religion regards it a sin to kill yourself or any other mortal, while it requires you to endure whatever G.o.d has decreed, whether it be death by torture or an hour of bliss in the arms of the Caesar. Do not forget that you are a Christian, and that many Christian women have borne this form of martyrdom before you."

The drawn dagger trembled in Sophronia's hand.

aevius moved a step nearer.

"Remember that you are a Christian," he said, casting a swift glance at the dagger to wrest it by a bold spring from the maiden's hand.

"But I am also a Roman!" cried Sophronia, as she recalled her sister's words; and with the speed of lightning she buried the steel in her heart.

The blow was dealt with a sure hand, and the blade pierced the strong heart to its hilt. The Roman prized her honour more than her salvation.

The next instant she sank dying on the floor, composing the folds of her garments with her last strength, that even in death she might not betray the grace of her figure to unholy eyes.

CHAPTER VIII.

Meanwhile the father and the betrothed husband vainly sought the maiden. They could search only in secret: open protection, undisguised defense could not be given to Sophronia.

Old Mesembrius had not been seen in Rome for a long time, and therefore every one was surprised when the distinguished patrician again appeared in the Forum, leaning on his ivory crutches and pausing at every step.

"Ah, worthy Senator, you rarely show yourself in Rome," said a perfumed patrician dandy. "Since the death of Probus we have not seen you even once."

"I am old and feeble, my good Pompeius. My feet will scarcely carry me, and I should not have recognised you had you not spoken to me, for my eyes are almost blind."

"But why do you not live in Rome?"

"If you should see the splendid turnips I raise in my garden, you surely would not summon me to Rome. An old man like me interests himself only in his apricot slips."

At this moment a messenger from the Capitol whispered to Pompeius:

"Carinus has laid aside the purple in favor of his brother Numerian."

Mesembrius sometimes heard so well that he caught the faintest murmur.

"What did you say?" he eagerly exclaimed. "Carinus has abdicated, and Numerian will be Imperator? Huzza! Huzza!"

"Do you know Numerian? What kind of a man is he?" asked the courtiers anxiously.

"What kind of a man? He is a hero, a Roman, under whose rule Rome's golden age will begin again and the sun of fame will again s.h.i.+ne upon us. The glorious battles which Rome fought against half the world Numerian will continue. We will all share them. A new and radiant epoch is dawning. I will swing myself upon my charger and be where every man of honour must appear. I am not yet too old to die in battle!"

The old man, frantic with joy, was gesticulating enthusiastically, without thinking of his crutches, and recognised an acquaintance coming from the direction of the Capitol at a distance of a hundred paces. This was Quaterquartus, the augur.

"You are from the Capitol, Quaterquartus? Well! Well! What is the news?"

"What I predicted," replied the augur with dignity. "The Senate would not accept the abdication, and compelled the immortal Carinus to continue to wear the purple."

Mesembrius was obliged to lean on his crutches again.

"Oh, my poor feet! Oh, this terrible gout in my knees! Foolish old man that I am; what have I been saying? I swing myself on a horse? If I could at least sit comfortably in my wheel-chair! Such a foolish old fellow! How could I go to war when I see so badly that I cannot distinguish friend from foe? Laugh at me, my dear friends; laugh at such a silly old man. Oh, my feet----"

And, groaning painfully, he dragged himself forward. Then Manlius met him.

"Have you learned anything?" he asked.

"To-morrow I will force myself into Carinus's presence. And you?"

"I will seek Glyceria."

"That you may kill her ere she can speak."

"Have no anxiety. Even if she could use magic arts, she would die. We will meet in Carinus's atrium to-morrow. Be provided with a good sword."

Manlius went to the _Pons Sacer_.

Before the statue of Triton sat the old woman who had given him the ring. When she saw Manlius she rose and went to meet him.

"Have you the ring with you, my lord?" she asked.

"Look at it."

"Will you go with me?"

"That is the purpose of my coming here."

"I have waited for you four days. Why did you not appear sooner?"

"Pleasure never comes too late," replied Manlius bitterly, and allowed himself to be conducted through gardens, byways, and covered pa.s.sages till his guide opened a small bronze gate, and taking him by the hand, led him through a dark corridor into a circular hall, adorned with pillars and lighted by a single round window above.

Here the old woman left him and went to summon her mistress.

Manlius looked around him. He had imagined the apartment of a Roman lady an entirely different room. He had expected to see jasper columns, garlanded with climbing plants, fountains perfumed with rose water, representations of frivolous love scenes, an atmosphere saturated with heavy fragrance, purple couches, and silver mirrors, and instead he found himself in a lofty, n.o.ble, temple-like hall, whose walls were adorned with masterly pictures of battles and heroes, while in the centre stood the marble bust of a bald-headed old man.

"Perhaps Glyceria does not even live here," he thought, and just at that moment heard his name uttered behind him. He turned. Before him stood a pale, slender woman, in a simple snow-white robe, whose folds concealed her figure up to her chin and covered her arms to the wrists. This was not the alluring costume that suited a love adventure. The face was still less seductive. Deep, despairing, consuming grief, that blight of beauty, was expressed in every feature.

Manlius recognised Glyceria. His blood rushed feverishly to his temples, and he convulsively clutched the hilt of his sword. Yet he did not wish to kill her thus. He thought that this, too, was only a new variety of the arts of temptation in which women are such adepts.

When a libertine is to be attracted, the graces are called to aid; if it is a hero, Minerva must be summoned to help. Clothes, moods, will correspond with the character of the chosen individual; nay, even the features will be altered so that they will appear different to every one. He could not kill her while she looked so sad; he must await the moment when she began to speak to him of her love to thrust his sword into her heart at the first yearning smile.

Pausing with drooping head, three paces from Manlius, the lady faltered almost too low for him to hear: