Their trial came off next day, but it was a mockery. Fanatical hate and bribery did their foul work—there was no justice whatever, and sentence of death was passed!
An appeal was made to Rome.
To that great city Pathema and her fellow prisoners were finally transported, and there they were imprisoned.
Among the poor and sick and dying of Patara and its neighbourhood, was no one more missed and mourned than the compassionate maiden who languished and wept in a far away Roman prison—wept, not so much for her own wrongs, as for the griefs and pains of others.
"O Lord, I cry to Thee—
Unending night, a mournful robe,
Enwraps my form, and veils my sight
From flower, and stream, and all I love—
My bondage break, O God!
"If I no more behold
My Crito, Lord, on him look down
With watchful eye, and send Thy light,
Restore his strength, and make him Thine;
Regard my love for him.
"Biona's tender care
Provide for, Lord, and guard from ill;
The father's wound, in pity heal.
Remember all the desolate
For whom I weep and pray.
"My parents, Lord, uphold;
Their grief assuage; Thy Spirit send
And teach of Him who suffered more
Than mortal man, to ransom me
From death—the Christ, my strength.
"Yet, Lord, how hard to die
So soon. Oh! to behold the sun,
To breathe the air, to clasp the flowers,
Embrace my 'loved, now loved tenfold;
But, Lord, Thy will be done!"