[CHAPTER X.]
The Legend of the Roman Soldier.
I HAD fastened up several of Percival's pictures on the wall of the room which he now occupied; and in which he received frequent visits from my aunt. On one occasion the following conversation was held between them.
Lady Mar. Percival, I cannot take my eyes from that picture of yours hung in the corner: it is so dramatic in composition, so vigorous in execution. Yet I find it so difficult to trace any connexion between it and any narrative contained in the Bible. I understood from my nephew that you only illustrate passages from Scripture.
Percival. Not exactly so, dear Lady Mar. The connection of my poor fancies with the Scriptures is like that of the mistletoe with the oak. The mistletoe is a weak little plant; of a nature different to, and far less noble than, the tree on which it rests: yet from that tree, it derives both nourishment and support.
Lady Mar. And the mistletoe bears delicate white berries, which serve to make winter brighter. But this picture before me has red berries rather than white ones. Despondency and attempted suicide appear to form its subject. A powerfully-made soldier, evidently a Roman, is about to fall on his own sword, his face expressing the despair which is driving him on to self-destruction. Another man, a Jew, has caught hold of his arm, evidently to prevent the warrior from accomplishing his desperate purpose.
Lady Mar continued: "Please tell us on what branch of the oak your parasite grows. You cannot refuse us anything this evening, as my nephew leaves us for college to-morrow; so to one of us, as you see, this will be the last night of meeting for some months to come."
I thought sadly, "Possibly indeed the last meeting. Shall I find Percival here on my return?"
"I happen to have written out my little Legend," was Percival's reply. "If Seyton cares to read it, and you to listen, it is quite at your service."