CHAPTER XXV.

THE RESCUE.

In spite of every attempt at concealment, the news was soon spread among all connected with the court, that Sebastian had been discovered to be a Christian, and was to be shot to death on the morrow. But on none did the double intelligence make such an impression as on Fabiola.

Sebastian a Christian! she said to herself; the noblest, purest, wisest of Rome’s nobility a member of that vile, stupid sect? Impossible! Yet, the fact seems certain. Have I, then, been deceived? Was he not that which he seemed? Was he a mean impostor, who affected virtue, but was secretly a libertine? Impossible, too! Yes, this was indeed impossible! She had certain proofs of it. He knew that he might have had her hand and fortune for the asking, and he had acted most generously and most delicately towards her. He was what he seemed, that she was sure--not gilded, but gold.

Then how account for this phenomenon, of a Christian being all that was good, virtuous, amiable?

One solution never occurred to Fabiola’s mind, that he was all this _because_ he was a Christian. She only saw the problem in another form; how could he be all that he was _in spite_ of being a Christian?

She turned it variously in her mind, in vain. Then it came to her thought thus. Perhaps, after all, good old Chromatius was right, and Christianity may not be what I have fancied; and I ought to have inquired more about it. I am sure Sebastian never did the horrible things imputed to Christians. Yet every body charges them with them.

Might there not be a more refined form of this religion, and a more grovelling one; just as she knew there was in her own sect, Epicureanism? one coarse, material, wallowing in the very mire of sensualism; the other refined, sceptical and reflective. Sebastian would belong to the higher class, and despise and loathe the superstitions and vices of the commoner Christians. Such a hypothesis might be tenable; but it was hard to reconcile to her intellect, how a man like that noble soldier could, any way, have belonged to that hated race. And yet he was ready to die for their faith! As to Zoë and the others, she had heard nothing, for she had only returned the day before from a journey made into Campania, to arrange her father’s affairs.

What a pity, she thought, that she had not talked more to Sebastian on such subjects! But it was now too late; to-morrow morning he would be no more. This second thought came with the sharp pang of a shaft shot into her heart. She felt as if she personally were about to suffer a loss, as if Sebastian’s fate were going to fall on some one closely bound to her, by some secret and mysterious tie.

Her thoughts grew darker and sadder, as she dwelt on these ideas amidst the deepening gloom. She was suddenly disturbed by the entrance of a slave with a light. It was Afra, the black servant, who came to prepare her mistress’s evening repast, which she wished to take alone. While busy with her arrangements, she said, “Have you heard the news, madam?”

“What news?”

“Only that Sebastian is going to be shot with arrows to-morrow morning. What a pity; he was such a handsome youth!”

“Be silent, Afra; unless you have some information to give me on the subject.”

“Oh, of course, my mistress; and my information is indeed very astonishing. Do you know that he turns out to be one of those wretched Christians?”

“Hold your peace, I pray you, and do not prate any more about what you do not understand.”

“Certainly not, if you so wish it; I suppose his fate is quite a matter of indifference to you, madam. It certainly is to _me_. He won’t be the first officer that my countrymen have shot. Many they have killed, and some they have saved. But of course that was all chance.”

There was a significance in her words and tones, which did not escape the quick ear and mind of Fabiola. She looked up, for the first time, and fixed her eyes searchingly on her maid’s swarthy face. There was no emotion in it; she was placing a flagon of wine upon the table, just as if she had not spoken. At length the lady said to her:

“Afra, what do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. What can a poor slave know? Still more, what can she do?”

“Come, come, you meant by your words something that I must know.”

The slave came round the table, close to the couch on which Fabiola rested, looked behind her, and around her, then whispered, “Do you want Sebastian’s life preserved?”

Fabiola almost leaped up, as she replied, “Certainly.”

The servant put her finger to her lip, to enforce silence, and said, “It will cost dear.”

“Name your price.”

“A hundred _sestertia_,[184] and my liberty.”

“I accept your terms; but what is my security for them?”

“They shall be binding only if, twenty-four hours after the execution, he is still alive.”

“Agreed; and what is yours?”

“Your word, lady.”

“Go, Afra, lose not a moment.”

“There is no hurry,” quietly replied the slave, as she completed, unflurried, the preparations for supper.

She then proceeded at once to the palace, and to the Mauritanian quarters, and went in directly to the commander.

“What dost thou want, Jubala,” he said, “at this hour? There is no festival to-night.”

“I know, Hyphax; but I have important business with thee.”

“What is it about?”

“About thee, about myself, and about thy prisoner.”

“Look at _him_ there,” said the barbarian, pointing across the court, which his door commanded. “You would not think that _he_ is going to be shot to-morrow. See how soundly he sleeps. He could not do so better, if he were going to be married instead.”

“As thou and I, Hyphax, intend to be the next day.”

“Come, not quite so fast; there are certain conditions to be fulfilled first.”

“Well, what are they?”

“First, thy manumission. I cannot marry a slave.”

“That is secured.”

“Secondly, a dowry, a _good_ dowry, mind; for I never wanted money more than now.”

“That is safe too. How much dost thou expect?”

“Certainly not less than three hundred pounds.”[185]

“I bring thee six hundred.”

“Excellent! where didst thou get all this cash? Whom hast thou robbed? whom hast thou poisoned, my admirable priestess? Why wait till _after_ to-morrow? Let it be to-morrow, to-night, if it please thee.”

“Be quiet now, Hyphax; the money is all lawful gain; but it has its conditions, too. I said I came to speak about the prisoner also.”

“Well, what has he to do with our approaching nuptials?”

“A great deal.”

“What now?”

“He must not die.”

The captain looked at her with a mixture of fury and stupidity. He seemed on the point of laying violent hands on her; but she stood intrepid and unmoved before him, and seemed to command him by the strong fascination of her eye, as one of the serpents of their native land might do a vulture.

“Art mad?” he at last exclaimed; “thou mightest as well at once ask for my head. If thou hadst seen the emperor’s face, when he issued his orders, thou wouldst have known he will have no trifling with him here.”

“Pshaw! pshaw! man; of course the prisoner will appear dead, and will be reported as dead.”

“And if he finally recover?”

“His fellow-Christians will take care to keep him out of the way.”

“Didst thou say twenty-four hours alive? I wish thou hadst made it twelve.”

“Well, but I know that thou canst calculate close. Let him die in the twenty-fifth hour, for what I care.”

“It is impossible, Jubala, impossible; he is too important a person.”

“Very well, then; there is an end to our bargain. The money is given only on this condition. Six hundred pounds thrown away!” And she turned off to go.

“Stay, stay,” said Hyphax, eagerly; the demon of covetousness coming uppermost. “Let us see. Why, my fellows will consume half the money, in bribes and feasting.”

“Well, I have two hundred more in reserve for that.”

“Sayest thou so, my princess, my sorceress, my charming demon? But that will be too much for my scoundrels. We will give them half, and add the other half--to our marriage-settlements, shan’t we?”

“As it pleases thee, provided the thing is done according to my proposal.”

“It is a bargain, then. He shall live twenty-four hours; and after that, we will have a glorious wedding.”

Sebastian, in the meantime, was unconscious of these amiable negotiations for his safety; for, like Peter between two guards, he was slumbering soundly by the wall of the court. Fatigued with his day’s work, he had enjoyed the rare advantage of retiring early to rest; and the marble pavement was a good enough soldier’s bed. But, after a few hours’ repose, he awoke refreshed; and now that all was hushed, he silently rose, and with outstretched arms, gave himself up to prayer.

The martyr’s prayer is not a preparation for death; for his is a death that needs no preparation. The soldier who suddenly declares himself a Christian, bends down his head, and mingles his blood with that of the confessor, whom he had come to execute; or the friend, of unknown name, who salutes the martyr going to death, is seized, and made to bear him willing company,[186] is as prepared for martyrdom, as he who has passed months in prison engaged in prayer. It is not a cry, therefore, for the forgiveness of past sin; for there is a consciousness of that perfect love, which sendeth out fear, an inward assurance of that highest grace, which is incompatible with sin.

Nor in Sebastian was it a prayer for courage or strength; for the opposite feeling, which could suggest it, was unknown to him. It never entered into his mind to doubt, that as he had faced death intrepidly for his earthly sovereign on the battle-field, so he should meet it joyfully for his heavenly Lord, in any place.

His prayer, then, till morning, was a gladsome hymn of glory and honor to the King of kings, a joining with the seraph’s glowing eyes, and ever-shaking wings, in restless homage.

Then when the stars in the bright heavens caught his eyes, he challenged them as wakeful sentinels like himself, to exchange the watchword of Divine praises; and as the night-wind rustled in the leafless trees of the neighboring court of Adonis, he bade its wayward music compose itself, and its rude harping upon the vibrating boughs form softer hymns,--the only ones that earth could utter in its winter night-hours.

Now burst on him the thrilling thought that the morning hour approached, for the cock had crowed; and he would soon hear those branches murmuring over him to the sharp whistle of flying arrows, unerring in their aim. And he offered himself gladly to their sharp tongues, hissing as the serpent’s, to drink his blood. He offered himself as an oblation for God’s honor, and for the appeasing of his wrath. He offered himself particularly for the afflicted Church, and prayed that his death might mitigate her sufferings.

And then his thoughts rose higher, from the earthly to the celestial Church; soaring like the eagle from the highest pinnacle of the mountain-peak, towards the sun. Clouds have rolled away, and the blue embroidered veil of morning is rent in twain, like the sanctuary’s, and he sees quite into its revealed depths; far, far inwards, beyond senates of saints and legions of angels, to what Stephen saw of inmost and intensest glory. And now his hymn was silent; harmonies came to him, too sweet and perfect to brook the jarring of a terrestrial voice; they came to him, requiring no return; for they brought heaven into his soul; and what could he give back? It was as a fountain of purest refreshment, more like gushing light than water, flowing from the foot of the Lamb, and poured into his heart, which could only be passive, and receive the gift. Yet in its sparkling bounds, as it rippled along towards him, he could see the countenance now of one, and then of another of the happy friends who had gone before him; as if they were drinking, and bathing, and disporting, and plunging, and dissolving themselves in those living waters.

His countenance was glowing as with the very reflection of the vision, and the morning dawn just brightening (oh, what a dawn that is!), caught his face as he stood up, with his arms in a cross, opposite the east; so that when Hyphax opened his door and saw him, he could have crept across the court and worshipped him on his face.

Sebastian awoke as from a trance; and the chink of sesterces sounded in the mental ears of Hyphax; so he set scientifically about earning them. He picked out of his troop of a hundred, five marksmen, who could split a flying arrow with a fleeter one, called them into his room, told them their reward, concealing his own share, and arranged how the execution was to be managed. As to the body, Christians had already secretly offered a large additional sum for its delivery, and two slaves were to wait outside to receive it. Among his own followers he could fully depend on secrecy.

Sebastian was conducted into the neighboring court of the palace, which separated the quarters of these African archers from his own dwelling. It was planted with rows of trees, and consecrated to Adonis. He walked cheerfully in the midst of his executioners, followed by the whole band, who were alone allowed to be spectators, as they would have been of an ordinary exhibition of good archery. The officer was stripped and bound to a tree, while the chosen five took their stand opposite, cool and collected. It was at best a desolate sort of death. Not a friend, not a sympathizer near; not one fellow-Christian to bear his farewell to the faithful, or to record for them his last accents, and the constancy of his end. To stand in the middle of the crowded amphitheatre, with a hundred thousand witnesses of Christian constancy, to see the encouraging looks of many, and hear the whispered blessings of a few loving acquaintances, had something cheering, and almost inspiring in it; it lent at least the feeble aid of human emotions, to the more powerful sustainment of grace. The very shout of an insulting multitude put a strain upon natural courage, as the hunter’s cry only nerves the stag at bay. But this dead and silent scene, at dawn of day, shut up in the court of a house; this being, with most unfeeling indifference tied up, like a truss of hay, or a stuffed figure, to be coolly aimed at, according to the tyrant’s orders; this being alone in the midst of a horde of swarthy savages, whose very language was strange, uncouth, and unintelligible; but who were no doubt uttering their rude jokes, and laughing, as men do before a match or a game, which they are going to enjoy; all this had more the appearance of a piece of cruelty, about to be acted in a gloomy forest by banditti, than open and glorious confession of Christ’s name; it looked and felt more like assassination than martyrdom.

But Sebastian cared not for all this. Angels looked over the wall upon him; and the rising sun, which dazzled his eyes, but made him a clearer mark for his bowmen, shone not more brightly on him, than did the countenance of the only Witness he cared to have of suffering endured for His sake.

The first Moor drew his bow-string to his ear, and an arrow trembled in the flesh of Sebastian. Each chosen marksman followed in turn; and shouts of applause accompanied each hit, so cleverly approaching, yet avoiding, according to the imperial order, every vital part. And so the game went on; every body laughing, and brawling, and jeering, and enjoying it without a particle of feeling for the now drooping frame, painted with blood;[187] all in sport, except the martyr, to whom all was sober earnest--each sharp pang, the enduring smart, the exhaustion, the weariness, the knotty bonds, the constrained attitude! Oh! but earnest too was the steadfast heart, the untiring spirit, the unwavering faith, the unruffled patience, the unsated love of suffering for his Lord. Earnest was the prayer, earnest the gaze of the eye on heaven, earnest the listening of the ear for the welcoming strain of the heavenly porters, as they should open the gate.

It was indeed a dreary death; yet this was not the worst. After all, death came not; the golden gates remained unbarred; the martyr in heart, still reserved for greater glory even upon earth, found himself, not suddenly translated from death to life, but sunk into unconsciousness in the lap of angels. His tormentors saw when they had reached their intended measure; they cut the cords that bound him; and Sebastian fell exhausted, and to all appearance dead, upon the carpet of blood which he had spread for himself on the pavement. Did he lie, like a noble warrior, as he now appears in marble under his altar, in his own dear church? We at least cannot imagine him as more beautiful. And not only that church do we love, but that ancient chapel which stands in the midst of the ruined Palatine, to mark the spot on which he fell.[188]