CHAPTER XXIX.

THE SAME DAY: ITS SECOND PART.

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 been rejected, 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, and that 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 you will 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! _You_ hear 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 let loose, 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 of crimson, 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.

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,

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 she drew 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

your servants again touch and profane the hallowed remains of her, whom I have loved more than any thing on earth; but let me bear them hence to the sepulchre of her fathers; for she was noble as she was good.”

Tertullus was manifestly irritated, as he replied: “Madam, whoever you may be, your request cannot be granted. Catulus, see that the body be cast, as usual, into the river, or burnt.”

“I entreat you, sir,” the lady earnestly insisted, “by every claim which female virtue has upon you, by any tear which a mother has shed over you, by every soothing word which a sister has ever spoken to you, in illness or sorrow; by every ministration of their gentle hands, I implore you to grant my humble prayer. And if, when you return home this evening, you will be met at the threshold by daughters, who will kiss your hand, though stained with the blood of one, whom you may feel proud if they resemble, be able to say to them, at least, that this slightest tribute to the maidenly delicacy which they prize has not been refused.”

Such common sympathy was manifested that Tertullus, anxious to check it, asked her sharply:

“Pray, are you, too, a Christian?”

She hesitated for one instant, then replied, “No, sir, I am not; but I own that if anything could make me one, it would be what I have seen this day.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, that to preserve the religion of the empire such beings as she whom you have slain” (her tears interrupted her for a moment) “should have to die; while monsters who disgrace the shape and name of man should have to live and flourish. Oh, sir, you know not what you have blotted out from earth this day! She was the purest, sweetest, holiest thing I ever knew upon it, the very flower of womanhood, though yet a child. And she might have lived yet, had she not scorned the proffered hand of a vile adventurer, who pursued her with his loathsome offers into the seclusion of her villa, into the sanctuary of her home, and even into the last retreat of her dungeon. For this she died, that she would not endow with her wealth, and ennoble by her alliance, that Asiatic spy.”

She pointed with calm scorn at Fulvius, who bounded forward, and exclaimed with fury: “She lies, foully and calumniously, sir. Agnes openly confessed herself a Christian.”

“Bear with me, sir,” replied the lady, with noble dignity, “while I convict him; and look on his face for proof of what I say. Didst thou not, Fulvius, early this morning, seek that gentle child in her cell, and deliberately tell her (for unseen, I heard you) that if she would but accept thy hand, not only wouldst thou save her life, but, despising the imperial commands, secure her still remaining a Christian?”

Fulvius stood, pale as death: _stood_, as one does for a moment who is shot through the heart, or struck by lightning. He looked like a man on whom sentence is going to be pronounced,--not of death, but of eternal pillory, as the judge addressed him, saying:

“Fulvius, thy very look confirms this grievous charge. I could arraign thee on it, for thy head, at once. But take my counsel, begone hence forever. Flee, and hide thyself, after such villany, from the indignation of all just men, and from the vengeance of the gods. Show not thy face again here, nor in the Forum, nor in any public place of Rome. If this lady pleases, even now I will take her deposition against thee. Pray, madam,” he asked most respectfully, “may I have the honor of knowing your name?”

“Fabiola,” she replied.

The judge was now all complacency, for he saw before him, he hoped, his future daughter-in-law. “I have often heard of you, madam,” he said, “and of your high accomplishments and exalted virtues. You are, moreover, nearly allied to this victim of treachery, and have a right to claim her body. It is at your disposal.” This speech was interrupted at its beginning by a loud hiss and yell that accompanied Fulvius’s departure. He was pale with shame, terror, and rage.

Fabiola gracefully thanked the prefect, and beckoned to Syra, who attended her. The servant again made a signal to some one else; and presently four slaves appeared bearing a lady’s litter. Fabiola would allow no one but herself and Syra to raise the relics from the ground, place them on the litter, and cover them with their precious pall. “Bear this treasure to its own home,” she said, and followed as mourner with her maid. A little girl, all in tears, timidly asked if she might join them.

“Who art thou?” asked Fabiola.

“I am poor Emerentiana, _her_ foster-sister,” replied the child; and Fabiola led her kindly by the hand.

The moment the body was removed, a crowd of Christians, children, men, and women, threw themselves forward, with sponges and linen cloths, to gather up the blood. In vain did the guards fall on them, with whips, cudgels, and even with sharper weapons, so that many mingled their own blood with that of the martyr. When a sovereign, at his coronation, or on first entering his capital, throws, according to ancient custom, handfuls of gold and silver coins among the crowd, he does not create a more eager competition for his scattered treasures, than there was among those primitive Christians, for what they valued more than gold or precious stones, the ruby drops which a martyr had poured from his heart for his Lord. But all respected the prior claim of one; and here it was the deacon Reparatus, who, at risk of life, was present, phial in hand, to gather the blood of Agnes’s testimony; that it might be appended, as a faithful seal, to the record of martyrdom on her tomb.