CHAPTER XXVI.

THE REVIVAL.

Night was far advanced, when the black slave, having completed her marriage settlement quite to her own satisfaction, was returning to her mistress’s house. It was, indeed, a cold wintry night, so she was well wrapped up, and in no humor to be disturbed. But it was a lovely night, and the moon seemed to be stroking, with a silvery hand, the downy robe of the _meta sudans_.[189] She paused beside it; and, after a silence of some moments, broke out into a loud laugh, as if some ridiculous recollection connected itself in her mind with that beautiful object. She was turning round to proceed on her way, when she felt herself roughly seized by the arm.

“If you had not laughed,” said her captor, bitterly, “I should not have recognized you. But that hyena laugh of yours is unmistakable. Listen, the wild beasts, your African cousins, are answering it from the amphitheatre. What was it about, pray?”

“About you.”

“How about me?”

“I was thinking of our last interview in this place, and what a fool you made of yourself.”

“How kind of you, Afra, to be thinking of me, especially as I was not just then thinking of you, but of your countrymen in those cells.”

“Cease your impertinence, and call people by their proper names. I am not Afra the slave any longer; at least I shall not be so in a few hours; but Jubala, the wife of Hyphax, commander of the Mauritanian archers.”

“A very respectable man, no doubt, if he could speak any language besides his gibberish; but these few hours of interval may suffice for the transaction of our business. You made a mistake, methinks, in what you said just now. It was _you_, was it not, that made a fool of me at our last meeting? What has become of your fair promises, and of my fairer gold, which were exchanged on that occasion? Mine, I know, proved sterling; yours, I fear, turned out but dust.”

“No doubt; for so says a proverb in my language: ‘the dust on a wise man’s skirts is better than the gold in the fool’s girdle.’ But let us come to the point; did you really ever believe in the power of my charms and philters?”

“To be sure I did; do you mean they were all imposture?”

“Not quite all; you see we have got rid of Fabius, and the daughter is in possession of the fortune. That was a preliminary step of absolute necessity.”

“What! do you mean that your incantations removed the father?” asked Corvinus, amazed, and shrinking from her. It was only a sudden bright thought of Afra’s, so she pushed her advantage, saying:

“To be sure; what else? It is easy thus to get rid of any one that is too much in the way.”

“Good night, good night,” he replied in great fear.

“Stay a moment,” she answered, somewhat propitiated: “Corvinus, I gave you two pieces of advice worth all your gold that night. One you have acted against; the other you have not followed.”

“How?”

“Did I not tell you not to hunt the Christians, but to catch them in your toils? Fulvius has done the second, and has gained something. You have done the first, and what have you earned?”

“Nothing but rage, confusion, and stripes.”

“Then I was a good counsellor in the one advice; follow me in the second.”

“What was it?”

“When you had become rich enough by Christian spoil, to offer yourself, with your wealth, to Fabiola. She has till now coldly rejected every offer; but I have observed one thing carefully. Not a single suit has been accompanied by riches. Every spendthrift has sought her fortune to repair his own; depend upon it, he that wins the prize must come on the principle that two and two make four. Do you understand me?”

“Too well, for where are my two to come from?”

“Listen to me, Corvinus, for this is our last interview; and I rather like you, as a hearty, unscrupulous, relentless, and unfeeling good hater.” She drew him nearer and whispered: “I know from Eurotas, out of whom I can wheedle anything, that Fulvius has some splendid Christian prizes in view, one especially. Come this way into the shadow, and I will tell you how surely you may intercept his treasure. Leave to him the cool murder that will be necessary, for it may be troublesome; but step in between him and the spoil. He would do it to you any day.”

She spoke to him for some minutes in a low and earnest tone; and at the end, he broke out into the loud exclamation, “Excellent!” What a word in such a mouth!

She checked him by a pull, and pointing to the building opposite, exclaimed: “Hush! look there!”

How are the tables turned; or, rather, how has the world gone round in a brief space! The last time these two wicked beings were on the same spot, plotting bane to others, the window above was occupied by two virtuous youths, who, like two spirits of good, were intent on unravelling their web of mischief, and countermining their dark approaches. They are gone thence, the one sleeping in his tomb, the other slumbering on the eve of execution. Death looks to us like a holy power, seeing how much he prefers taking to his society the good, rather than the evil. He snatches away the flower, and leaves the weed its poisonous life, till it drops into mature decay.

But at the moment that they looked up, the window was occupied by two other persons.

“That is Fulvius,” said Corvinus, “who just came to the window.”

“And the other is his evil demon, Eurotas,” added the slave. They both watched and listened from their dark nook.

Fulvius came again, at that moment, to the window, with a sword in his hand, carefully turning and examining the hilt in the bright moonlight. He flung it down at last, exclaiming with an oath, “It is only brass, after all.”

Eurotas came with, to all appearance, a rich officer’s belt, and examined it carefully. “All false stones! Why, I declare the whole of the effects are not worth fifty pounds. You have made but a poor job of this, Fulvius.”

“Always reproaching me, Eurotas. And yet this miserable gain has cost me the life of one of the emperor’s most favorite officers.”

“And no thanks probably from your master for it.” Eurotas was right.

Next morning, the slaves who received the body of Sebastian were surprised by a swarthy female figure passing by them, and whispering to them, “He is still alive.”

Instead, therefore, of carrying him out for burial, they bore him to the apartment of Irene. The early hour of the morning, and the emperor’s having gone, the evening before, to his favorite Lateran palace, facilitated this movement. Instantly Dionysius was sent for, and he pronounced every wound curable; not one arrow having touched a vital organ. But loss of blood had taken place to such a fearful extent, that he considered weeks must elapse before the patient would be fit to move.

For four-and-twenty hours Afra assiduously called, almost every hour, to ask how Sebastian was. When the probationary term was finished, she conducted Fabiola to Irene’s apartment, to receive herself assurance that he breathed, though scarcely more. The deed of her liberation from servitude was executed, her dowry was paid, and the whole Palatine and Forum rung with the mad carouse and hideous rites of her nuptials.

Fabiola inquired after Sebastian with such tender solicitude that Irene doubted not that she was a Christian. The first few times she contented herself with receiving intelligence at the door, and putting into the hands of Sebastian’s hostess a large sum towards the expenses of his recovery; but after two days, when he was improving, she was courteously invited to enter; and, for the first time in her life, she found herself consciously in the bosom of a Christian family.

Irene, we are told, was the widow of Castulus, one of the Chromatian band of converts. Her husband had just suffered death; but she remained still, unnoticed, in the apartments held by him in the palace. Two daughters lived with her; and a marked difference in their behavior soon struck Fabiola, as she became familiar with them. One evidently thought Sebastian’s presence an intrusion, and seldom or never approached him. Her behavior to her mother was rude and haughty, her ideas all belonged to the common

world,--she was selfish, light, and forward. The other, who was the younger, was a perfect contrast to her,--so gentle, docile and affectionate; so considerate about others; so devoted to her mother; so kind and attentive to the poor patient. Irene herself was a type of the Christian matron, in the middle class of life. Fabiola did not find her intelligent, or learned, or witty, or highly polished; but she saw her always calm, active, sensible, and honest. Then she was clearly warm-hearted, generous, deeply affectionate, and sweetly patient. The pagan lady had never seen such a household,--so simple, frugal, and orderly. Nothing disturbed it, except the character of the elder sister. In a few days it was ascertained that the daily visitor was not a Christian; but this caused no change in their treatment of her. Then she in her turn made a discovery which mortified her--that the elder daughter was still heathen. All that she saw made a favorable impression on her, and softened the hard crust of prejudice on her mind. For the present, however, her thoughts were all absorbed in Sebastian, whose recovery was slow. She formed plans with Irene for carrying him off to her Campanian villa, where she would have leisure to confer with him on religion. An insuperable obstacle, however, rose to this project.

We will not attempt to lead our reader into the feelings of Sebastian. To have yearned after martyrdom, to have prayed for it, to have suffered all its pangs, to have died in it as far as human consciousness went, to have lost sight of this world, and now to awaken in it again, no martyr, but an ordinary wayfaring man on probation, who might yet lose salvation,--was surely a greater trial than martyrdom itself. It was to be like a man who, in the midst of a stormy night, should try to cross an angry river, or tempestuous arm of the sea, and, after struggling for hours, and having his skiff twirled round and round and all but upset, should find himself relanded on the same side as he started from. Or, it was like St. Paul sent back to earth and to Satan’s buffets, after having heard the mysterious words which only one Intelligence can utter. Yet no murmur escaped him, no regret. He adored in silence the Divine Will, hoping that its purpose was only to give him the merit of a double martyrdom. For this second crown he so earnestly longed, that he rejected every proposal for flight and concealment.

“I have now,” he generously said, “earned one privilege of a martyr, that of speaking boldly to the persecutors. This I will use the first day that I can leave my bed. Nurse me, therefore, well, that it may be the sooner.”