“Have I not! Curio,” said the old man, his gleaming eyes and trembling limbs bespeaking his emotion, “where is my brave, my noble boy, the support of my years, the idol of my love? Was not his life sacrificed, daring to brave the vengeance of that human monster, to wrest the wife of his love from even a more dreadful fate than his own, from a more bloody beast than the one that tore his mangled limbs?” Grief soon choked every other emotion, and large tears rolled down his withered cheeks.
“Nay, good Crispus, nay; time has softened thy sorrow; do not renew it.” “Rome will be at peace, now,” said Rutilius, “so, mother,” continued he, addressing the aged woman, who had appeared sunk in stupor, “thou mayst add another to thy list of changes.” Her vacant gaze would have betokened inattention to his address, but, as he spoke, she arose, though with difficulty, and her voice, though clear and distinct, was faint. “Ye are the creatures of change,” said she; “the idol of one hour, ye contemn the next. There is One,” and her tone changed to a deep solemnity, “who is said to be the same yesterday, today, and forever! Believest thou in the God of the Christians?”
“Not I, mother, and methinks if thou dost, it is well for thine aged limbs that Nero is not Emperor of Rome.”
“The years of my life are closing,” she said; “the thick darkness which brooded over them is dispersing, the strength of this weary body is failing, but light dawns upon the benighted soul. Listen,” said she, her voice becoming more firm, “ere the number of the days of my life have again passed, thine haughty Emperors will acknowledge this God; these gilded temples will echo with His worship, and the altars of thy false gods be overthrown in the dust from whence they sprang.”
As they listened to her predictions with fixed attention she sank again upon the step from which she had arisen. In a low and soft cadence she continued: “The sweet music of my childhood’s home sounds in mine ears, the fragrance of its fields steals over my senses, and my pulse vibrates to the joyous measure of the dancing virgins.” Her face became more deathly pale, her utterance more broken. “Go,” said she, “to the noble Roman, Quintius Curtius, say to him that Sagana, the Thessalian, with her dying breath implores a resting place beneath the cypress which shades the grave of her mother; go; and thou, too, in thy last need, shalt find a friend.”
Her head drooped upon a projection of rock, her eyes closed, but as her spirit departed the rigid lines of her face relaxed and a calm, serene expression stole over it, unknown to her life.
“’Tis the old witch of the mountain,” said Curio, “as very a Hecate as ever took the form of an old woman.”
“I’ll not do her bidding,” said Rutilius.
“That will I,” said Crispus; “if these aged limbs will support me, if the God of the Christians be her God, I will go on her errand for the sake of my departed Cleia, the darling of my murdered boy; she owned no other deity.” So saying, the good old man adjusted the mantle over her marble features and, with slow steps, pursued his way to the Appian palace.
“These Christians will be growing bold, now,” said Rutilius.