“She is dead!” he said. “God’s mercy has spared her the worst.”
The by-standers, who had so victoriously lived down their own sufferings, stood deeply moved at the sight of the gentle, innocent creature, that had been held captive like a criminal, and almost literally tortured to death.
“It is well with her!” said Flavius Clemens, clasping his weeping wife in his arms.
Calmer than all else, as it appeared, was the half-whispered dialogue between Quintus and Cornelia. Each was endeavoring to utter what was bursting their hearts, but in as indifferent a tone and with as little gesture as possible, so as not to attract the attention of their fellow-prisoners.
“Listen, Cornelia,” whispered Quintus, hardly daring to open his lips. “You are here solely in the hope of urging me to recant. It is not true, that you are really condemned to death?”
Cornelia looked him in the lace with a bitter smile.
“Of urging you to recant?” she repeated slowly. “Alas! if any sufferings of mine could have softened your heart, we should never have come to this! Why, you would see me torn to pieces ten times over by wild beasts, before you would yield a jot of what you call the truth. No, Quintus, it is quite true. You did not care to live with your devoted Cornelia—very good; then if you must suffer death, Cornelia dies too. It is as simple as a nursery rhyme.”
Quintus shuddered.
“But could any one condemn you?” he said. “You are not one of the sect.”
“I pronounced myself guilty—and they believed me.”