The guard in uniform opened the door and led the innocent victim into the great arena.
"The maiden comes: see, yonder," said Coryna, looking intently towards her.
Myrtis spoke not, but strained her eyes to see.
The Christian maiden approached slowly in charge of the guard till she was placed in front of the pavilion where sat the emperor, clothed in a purple robe and on his head a laurel crown. Leaving her there, the guard withdrew without delay that the keeper might unbar a heavy iron gate for the wild beast to enter in and devour.
Pathema stood alone, a graceful form in flowing garments, within those spacious walls. Clothed in mockery in the white robe of a vestal virgin, yet she was a chaste virgin of Jesus Christ. Bound with a white fillet, her rich black hair, of lavish length, lay back in glistening waves. Her soft dark eyes were modestly towards the ground; once only were they raised, and then to a purer region than earth. Her face was pale and worn but eminently beautiful, with the light of heaven on her thoughtful brow. All around, thousands upon thousands of human eyes, gazing with inhumane curiosity, were an abashing and disturbing sight themselves. But with the solitary object of their gaze, the flow of mental energy was smoothly but strongly and consumingly in the channel of the spiritual emotions. The hidden struggle with conflicting streams of feeling was all gone through in the bitterness and supplications of the dungeon. The agony was past, and Pathema was resigned.
"That sad sweet countenance entrances me," said Myrtis, deeply moved. "Oh Coryna, I go, and yet I cannot! Whence that light and peace?"
Coryna replied not, for she could not. But from among the pullati or poor people, immediately below, an answer of a kind came. It was in the subdued voice of a shepherd from the mountains of Lycia. Orestes had nimbly escaped while Pathema was being removed from the prison not long before; but at the risk of recapture he had entered the amphitheatre, determined, like Peter, to see the end, not out of curiosity but of Christian love, hoping against hope. He sat at the end of a seat near one of the vomitoria or doors of entrance from the internal lobbies in the shell of the building. Although his garb was soiled and worn, his face was thoughtful, humane and resolute, like the rugged rocks of Taurus. His remarks were not intended for other ears, but were the half-audible, broken sentences of an intense mind.
"Listen!" said Coryna, recovering herself, "he speaks in our own tongue; and they heard such expressions as—
"The peace of God, which passeth all understanding. Enduring—enduring! Life is but a fleeting breath at best. Corrupt—corrupt! Is not this foul spectacle around her the proof? She would not live for a human name—worthless from the low-viewed multitude—nor for pleasure, nor for mere living, at the price of loyalty to Christ. Yet she would live—live that she might humbly aid these people to rise up from the pit of the sensual savage mind—into the light, the glorious light. But she is rejected and despised. Like her Master, she must be sacrificed—in cruelty and shame. If it be possible, let this cup pass from her, I beseech Thee, O God!"
Pathema knew not that in the vast multitude above there was one—her fellow-countryman and co-worker, the humble shepherd of mount Taurus—pleading for her life with all the intensity of agonising pity. To her, mercy was a stranger within those living walls, yet with meekly bended head in steadfast trust she stood, bearing her awful cross in the footprints of the Nazarene.