Unable to tear his hand from the cross, Crispus strained awfully. He was terrible,—a living skeleton; unbending as predestination, he shook his white beard over Nero’s podium, scattering, as he nodded, rose leaves from the garland on his head.
“Woe to thee, murderer! Thy measure is surpassed, and thy hour is at hand!”
Here he made one more effort. It seemed for a moment that he would free his hand from the cross and hold it in menace above Cæsar; but all at once his emaciated arms extended still more, his body settled down, his head fell on his breast, and he died.
In that forest of crosses the weakest began also the sleep of eternity.
Chapter LVIII
“LORD,” said Chilo, “the sea is like olive oil, the waves seem to sleep. Let us go to Achæa. There the glory of Apollo is awaiting thee, crowns and triumph are awaiting thee, the people will deify thee, the gods will receive thee as a guest, their own equal; but here, O lord—”
And he stopped, for his lower lip began to quiver so violently that his words passed into meaningless sounds.
“We will go when the games are over,” replied Nero. “I know that even now some call the Christians innoxia corpora. If I were to go, all would repeat this. What dost thou fear?”
Then he frowned, but looked with inquiring glance at Chilo, as if expecting an answer, for he only feigned cool blood. At the last exhibition he himself feared the words of Crispus; and when he had returned to the Palatine, he could not sleep from rage and shame, but also from fear.