Her husband gently stroked her hair, but he did not speak; he seemed lost in thought. She, however, sobbed incessantly: “Forgive me, oh forgive me!” Then clasping her hands, she prayed: “O God! All-merciful Father, do not desert us! Have pity on Thy children for Jesus Christ’s sake! Almighty God, comfort us and have mercy on us!”
Presently she got up and sat down by the side of her speechless husband; she threw her arms round him and kissed him.
“Tell me,” she whispered, and she shuddered, “what prayer shall I say in the last awful moment, when they are tearing my limbs? But oh! it is impossible; God can never leave us to die like this. No, He cannot, He cannot. No earthly father would, why then should our Father in Heaven? Say, Diphilus, he will send us an angel to bear us away to the land of joy and peace? It is only to try us—say, Diphilus.”
“My poor child,” said Diphilus, and he broke into tears.
And then she began again, chattering in her sweet, silly way, till at last, almost while she was speaking, her eyelids closed, and her head sank gently on his breast; she was asleep—and in a few hours her round young limbs were to be mangled by beasts of prey.
There was another couple of senatorial rank there besides Quintus and Cornelia: the consul, Flavius Clemens,[156] a man of blameless character and the highest merit, and with him his noble wife. Both in calm and silent resignation had joined a group, that had gathered round a girl of eight, who had sunk into a decline in consequence of her long imprisonment. Her father, an artisan from the Subura, had carried the poor child in his arms from one prison to the other. She was now half sitting and leaning against the wall, looking round her with large, ghastly-bright eyes, while her father held her hands and listened to her words as though they were a revelation from Heaven.
“Do not cry, father dear,” she said coaxingly. “That good angel, that has so often come to me, will not have your Cynthia torn by lions. He is coming to fetch me away. There—there—where the wall is open and you see the blue sky through—he is there in the sunshine.”
A faint smile fleeted across the wasted face, transient and melancholy as the last rosy hue of an autumn sunset. She closed her eyes, but opened them again at once in rapt ecstasy.
“Good-night, father,” she said with a sigh. “I am going first, up into that bright and glorious heaven. When the time comes, and your heart is breaking with terror and pain, remember me, father, and do not forget that I shall be praying to God to give you strength and courage to the last. Oh father, I thank you too for having loved me so much, and for having taught me to know the Saviour, and taken care of me in all your trouble. And I thank you too, dear good friends, and I will pray to God for you all as well. What a glorious sight! I can see far, far away into the gates of light. Yes, Angel of Hope, I am ready to follow you. Kiss me, father, once more, for He has got my hand—He is flying, dragging me up—up....” her arms fell into her lap, and she sighed deeply. Then she lay still, as if she had gone to sleep.
“Cynthia, my child!” cried the father, and with a loud sob he pressed the cold, slender hands to his furrowed face.