Sick with a fear that he could not control, Stephen approached the cross, treading carefully lest he should awaken the brutal sleepers at its foot.
"Water!" cried the sufferer. "Yes, I see it--a brown stream running over its pebbles--a lake deep and cool. I will hide in it, my hands are burning--no, no, they are dead."
"Here is water," said Stephen in a trembling voice, holding his flask to the lips of the dying wretch--for he hung low, his feet almost touching the ground.
But the man could not drink; he opened his glazing eyes, apparently not seeing the face of angelic pity at his side, for he fell to babbling disconnectedly of many things, mingling frightful curses on his tormentors with prayers to the pagan gods.
Stephen sent up a swift prayer for help; he could pray now. "Listen!" he cried, not heeding the fact that a group of wayfarers had stopped and were regarding him with open-mouthed amazement. "Listen--thou mayest yet be saved. Jesus of Nazareth can save thee! Master, hear--I beseech thee--and save!"
The dim eyes were turned upon him now; there was a gleam of understanding in them. "Art thou--Jesus--of Nazareth?"
"Nay, I am but his servant. Call upon him quickly to forgive--to save."
"Jesus--forgive--save!" gasped the failing voice, then all was still.
Stephen looked once into the quiet face of the man on the cross, then down at the soldiers, who were beginning to stir a little. One of them sat up and threw his arms above his head and yawned.
"By Bacchus!" he exclaimed. "I must have slept,--a murrain on these night watches, the fellow could not have gotten away." Then his eye fell upon Stephen. "Who art thou?" he cried, springing to his feet; "and what art thou doing here? If now thou hast meddled with the malefactor--ha! the fellow is gone. Didst thou give him aught to help him to his death?"