Agne had witnessed the attack on her father’s house by the angry mob who had killed her parents, their two slaves, and her elder brother. Her father must certainly have been an official of some rank, and probably, as it would seem, a Roman citizen, in which case—as Porphyrius agreed—both the young girl and her little brother could legally claim their freedom. The insurgents who had dragged the two children out into the street had been driven off by the troops, and it was from them that Karnis had rescued them. “And I have never regretted it,” added the old musician, “for Agne is a sweet, gentle soul. Of her voice I need say nothing, since you yourselves heard it yesterday.”
“And were quite delighted with it!” cried Gorgo. “If flowers could sing it would be like that!”
“Well, well,” said Karnis. “She has a lovely voice—but she wants wings. Something—what, I know not, keeps the violet rooted to the soil.”
“Christian scruples,” said the merchant, and Damia added:
“Let Eros touch her—that will loosen her tongue.”
“Eros, always Eros!” repeated Gorgo shrugging her shoulders. “Nay, love means suffering—those who love drag a chain with them. To do the best of which he is capable man needs only to be free, true, and in health.”
“That is a great deal, fair mistress,” replied Karnis eagerly. “With these three gifts the best work is done. But as to Agne—what can be further from freedom than a girl bound to service? her body, to be sure is healthy, but her spirit suffers; she can get no peace for dread of the Christian’s terrors: Sin, Repentance, and Hell....”
“Oh, we know how their life is ruined!” interrupted the old lady. “Was it Agne who introduced you to Mary’s Asylum?”
“No, noble lady.”
“But how then—that prudent saint generally selects her guests, and those that are not baptized...”