‘You do not, then, fear death?’ said Onesimus.
‘Why should I? What has life for me? The maiden I loved is in her hut on my Silurian hills. I shall never see her more, nor set foot on those purple mist-clad mountains. I shall be butchered to amuse these swine. Death! No,’ he said, while he indignantly dashed away the tear which had burst forth at the thought of his home—‘I do not fear death, but I hate to die thus.’
‘Did your Druids think that death ended all?’
Glanydon turned his blue eyes on the speaker. ‘I do not think they did. There were mysteries which they hid from us. But’....
With amazement Onesimus saw him sketch in the dust the helmet of a mirmillo, of which the crest was a dolphin. The Phrygian said nothing, but scratched in the dust the same symbol. Glanydon started up and seized his hand. ‘A Christian?’ he asked in amazement; ‘and yet here?’
‘You too are here,’ said Onesimus, hanging his head.
‘Ah, yes!’ said the Briton; ‘but surely for no crime. What could I do but strike a wretch viler than a worm? Nor have I been illuminated—my teacher would not baptise me till he could see proof that I had controlled the fierce outbursts of passion.’
‘Your teacher?’
‘There came from Jerusalem an old white-haired man. They called him Joseph. He had seen the Christ; he had buried Him in his own tomb.—But you, Onesimus?’
‘I am no better than a renegade. My own follies have brought me here. There is no more hope for me. Ask me no more.’