"Whilst my nephew reads, I will keep my eye on the picture," said Lady Mar. "I feel a sympathy with that stalwart Roman, who seems in such a desperate plight."
The Legend of the Roman Soldier.
A soldier sought the silence and solitude of a forest; for the presence of his fellow-creatures had become hateful to his soul. The moonbeams, piercing like silver lances between the branches, glimmered on the steel breastplate and arms which had been borne in many a fight.
Marcus was a tried warrior, who had distinguished himself from his comrades by feats of strength and deeds of daring. But now all his spirit was gone: he would not have cared to raise his powerful arm to ward off a blow; nay, he would have welcomed the sharp steel which should cut him off from the earth, which had become to him worse than a prison.
"Now let me end my misery!" exclaimed Marcus. "I am a guilty wretch not fit to live! There is only one good deed which I can perform—use this accursed hand to avenge the innocent blood which it shed."
Clenching his teeth with fierce resolution, Marcus fixed the hilt of his sword firmly between the gnarled roots of a tree; hastily unfastened his breastplate, and flung it clanging on the earth; then nerved himself for the desperate act of throwing himself on the point of his sharp weapon.
But at that moment, the muscular arm of the strong soldier was seized by a Jew, who, unseen in the shade, had watched his movements.
"Madman! In Christ's name forbear!" exclaimed the Jew.
Marcus was startled at the word. "What! Are you one of the followers of Him who died on Calvary?" cried the soldier, drawing back, and surveying almost with fear one whom by a slight exertion of his giant strength, he could have dashed to the ground. "If you be a disciple of Christ, far from staying the execution of justice, you will slay me yourself, and trample my blood under your feet! Take yon sword, and strike home!"
"What hast thou done," asked the Christian, "that thou shouldst bid me slay thee?"