CHAPTER XVII.

THE FIRST FLOWER.

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

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

“But the enemy may seize you.”

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

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

“True, but others can.”

“They may be your enemies.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do not fear,” was the reply.

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

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

“All my life,” she replied.

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

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

“And how have you lived since?”

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

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

“How do you know that?”

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

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

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

“Oh, yes! how could I deny it?”

“Then that meeting was a Christian meeting?”

“Certainly; what else could it be?”

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

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

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

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

“So joyfully rather,” was her brief reply.

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

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

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

“What is thy name, child?”

“Cæcilia.”

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

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

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

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

“How dost thou mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pain?” she echoed innocently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another muttering of compassion was heard.

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

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

“It is too late. She is dead!”

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

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

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

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

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

“You are not hurt, I hope, Corvinus?”

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

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

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

“Who will be gone?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of fright, I fancy,” he replied.

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