Another—"With mine, there was nothing but quarrelling all day long. I did not like to submit to the abuses to which he subjected my person; and, for revenge, he had me persecuted as a Christian."
Another—"Recall to your memory that young man of such striking beauty who was dragged by the heels behind a chariot, like Hector, from the Esquiline Gate to the Mountains of Tibur; and his blood stained the bushes on both sides of the road. I collected the drops—here they are!"
She draws from her bosom a sponge perfectly black, covers it with kisses, and then flings herself upon the slab, crying:
"Ah! my friend! my friend!"
A man—"It is just three years to-day since Domitilla's death. She was stoned at the bottom of the Wood of Proserpine. I gathered her bones, which shone like glow-worms in the grass. The earth now covers them."
He flings himself upon a tombstone.
"O my betrothed! my betrothed!"
And all the others, scattered through the plain:
"O my sister!" "O my brother!" "O my daughter!" "O my mother!"
They are on their knees, their foreheads clasped with their hands, or their bodies lying flat with both arms extended; and the sobs which they repress make their bosoms swell almost to bursting. They gaze up at the sky, saying: