“Blessed are they that are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.” And below this, another hand had added in continuation: “Yea verily, that is my hope and comfort, which shall strengthen me in the hour of death.”
The longer Quintus lingered over these tokens of past spiritual victories, the more he felt as a wanderer might who, in the horrors of the wilderness, traced the footprints of men and so learnt that others had crossed the desert before him. He fancied himself surrounded and overshadowed by the death-defying army of martyrs, and he swore to himself that he would quail no more than Sericus and his maiden Psyche; than Archilaos, a lad of twenty, spoken of in another inscription, or than Chabrias, who left a lovely and adored bride in Rhodes, to be burnt alive or crucified in Nero’s gardens.
And here the thought of Cornelia, which he had, so far, resolutely held at bay, took possession of his soul. He shuddered and turned cold at the recollection; but his resolution was not to be shaken. Even the reflection that not one of the witnesses that had sojourned here, not even Chabrias, had had this horror added to his sufferings; that he was a victim to his own, dearly-loved father—even this worst stroke of all could not make him flinch. Something within him had frozen—petrified—something which had hitherto been alive to all the impulses of hope, fear and despair. If he could bear something more than all had suffered, who had gone before him, then it must be that God, who had laid it on him, deemed him to be of more heroic mould. The torment was greater? then the greater must the glory be! Fate had set him in the high places of life, visible from afar, one of the leaders of the people.—Then he must endure greater bitterness, suffer greater torments, so that his death should be heard of among the nations like a herald’s call from a mountain-top.
The solemn conviction that a special call from Heaven had ruled his fate, became clearer and firmer in his mind as the hours went by. With a curious mixture of pride and humility he regarded himself as an instrument in the hand of Providence, and in proportion as this belief grew and struck root another idea died out, which, during the last few hours, had recurred as mysteriously seductive, that of killing himself if all other hope failed. This, from an educated Roman’s point of view, was in no respect sinful or wrong.
It was considered permissible, nay highly praiseworthy, to cut the thread of existence, when every hope of an endurable future was lost. Nor had Quintus been long enough familiar with the principles and views of Christianity, to reject this desperate remedy at the first thought of it. But now, as he began to believe that he saw in his fate the designs of a higher power, he felt steeled against its seductions.
The lamp had burned lower and lower and at last went out; Quintus sat staring into the darkness for some little time. Then he felt his way round the wall to the bed, lay down on the mildewed worsted blanket and covered himself with his lacerna. After once more dedicating himself to God and his conscience, even unto death, he repeated the short prayer that the congregation had used on the occasion of his reception under the covenant. He had heard the words but once, but they were graven on his soul—those simple child-like words: “Our Father”—and then he fell asleep, as soundly and quietly as if he were lying on the soft cushions of his own cubiculum.
When he awoke, some hours later, a dull foggy twilight pervaded the room. The rattle of the bolts had roused him. It was his gaoler, who came in and set a freshly-filled amphora[91] down by his side; then he tilted the bowl of porridge, which Quintus had not touched, to see if the mess were yet too stiff to be eaten. After a moment’s hesitation he put it down and was leaving the room, when Quintus spoke to him.
“What time is it?” he asked, sitting up.
“Two hours past sunrise.”
“I am very hungry; give me something to eat.”