“Then you deceived your judges. Or has what was untrue become the truth by the force of conviction?”
Cornelia haughtily shook her head.
“My dearest,” said Quintus, hardly able to control his grief, “you are destroying my last hope of comfort. Ah Cornelia! if we could but have died united in a common faith! But as it is, woe to us both, Cornelia; your death is in itself a sin.”
“You alone are guilty of it.”
“I!” cried Quintus, in utter despair; his voice spoke grief too great for words, and Cornelia’s eyes humbly implored forgiveness.
“But how can I force my heart to submit?” she said as gently as an ill-used child. “Can I wish to live, if you die? Or again, can I believe what my reason condemns as a fable? Oh! I am not laughing at it, as I did when I first went to see you in prison! I feel now that faith is an invincible force, and gives bliss and strength even in the hour of death. And yet it seems to me a madness, a delirium of raving fancy. No, I cannot believe, however much I may desire it. My faith in Isis made me strong too—and it was all a lie, foul and base treachery. Ah! Quintus, Quintus, you are sacrificing your young and promising life for a mere dream, a delusion, a shadow—throwing everything away for an empty bubble!”
“My poor Cornelia!” said Quintus deeply moved. “The greatest idea, that ever dawned in the mind of man, you call a delusion and a dream. It is true, perhaps, that many of the aspects under which we shadow forth this great conception are petty and childish, for we are but weak and helpless mortals. But the essential part, the living principle which lies hidden behind these symbols, is true and perfect to all eternity. Poor, hapless Cornelia; how will you find courage to look death in the face; you, forsaken, alone, without a Saviour—hopeless—speechless—when the Nazarene can joyfully murmur the name of Jesus Christ? What prayer, what word of comfort can you find to whisper in that awful moment?”
“Can you ask?” said Cornelia, looking into his eyes. “The last words, that my lips will utter, will be your name, my first, last, only love. My god, my saviour, is called Quintus Claudius.”
Quintus could control himself no longer; the tears started to his eyes. He clasped her in his arms and covered her lips, cheeks and brow with passionate kisses.
Thus they stood for a time in an oblivious embrace. Suddenly they heard the roll of drums; a sudden terror fell upon the party of prisoners. This drumming was the signal for the fights in the arena to begin. The scattered groups drew closer together; the flute-player had sprung up with a scream. Some of the men began to bewail themselves and lament loudly, but the consul presently succeeded in controlling this outburst of terror. In a firm, loud voice, he admonished his fellow-victims to emulate the example of the Redeemer, and to remain steadfast through all their torments, so that the sight of their unshaken courage might win Him new disciples among the people. Then he told them how nobly the servants of the Lord had died under Nero; how even when burnt by slow fires, lighted by the hand of Caesar himself, with their latest breath they proclaimed the truth in Christ Jesus. The prisoners listened with growing devotion to his enthusiastic appeal, and the vault was as still as the catacomb used to be, when the little congregation met there for their Feast of Love.