“The Lord give you strength!” cried Flavius Clemens as the door closed upon them, and the remaining handful looked at each other with a sad and wistful smile. Their number was greatly diminished; at every moment the end drew nearer—nearer and more certain.
At noon the noble Flavius was led out to die, and a few minutes later his wife followed him. Then the rest, till at last only Quintus and Cornelia were left in the subterranean vault.
“They have reserved us for the last,” the girl began after a long and painful silence. “The most effective piece to conclude, as the connoisseurs say. Oh! Quintus, the disgrace is worse than the dread of death. Tell me, my dear love, you will not give the mob the triumph they long for, to see you fight like a gladiator? You will obey the voice of pride, which bids us rather turn the sword with calm dignity against our own breast?”
“Miserable man!” she groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “No worthy Claudius would say so! Or do you hope to be victorious over the lions?”
“I hope nothing, for I know that the short dagger is little better than a toy. But so long as my arm can wield it, I have no right to drop it out of self-conceit. If Providence has so willed, even that puny weapon will avail to fell the foe....”
“You are mad—or rather, I see now your creed is indeed the creed for slaves. It treads the pride of man into the dust.”
“True pride is that, which raises a man above all prejudice—which teaches him to despise scorn and look down on contempt. I know but one law—that of duty. But you, Cornelia, once more I implore you....”
The rattle of the bolts interrupted him; the dreadful moment had come.
For one second, breathless and with his eyes closed, he leaned against the wall. Then he stood calm and defiant Cornelia flung her arms round his neck.