But the Lygian dropped his head on his breast, and said,—“She would not consent, for she loves thee; besides, she is sick, and unable to stand alone. If thou and the noble Petronius cannot save her from prison, who can?” said he, after a while.
“Christ alone.”
Then both were silent.
“Christ could save all Christians,” thought the Lygian, in his simple heart; “but since He does not save them, it is clear that the hour of torture and death has come.”
He accepted it for himself, but was grieved to the depth of his soul for that child who had grown up in his arms, and whom he loved beyond life.
Vinicius knelt again near Lygia. Through the grating in the wall moonbeams came in, and gave better light than the one candle burning yet over the entrance. Lygia opened her eyes now, and said, placing her feverish hand on the arm of Vinicius,
“I see thee; I knew that thou wouldst come.”
He seized her hands, pressed them to his forehead and his heart, raised her somewhat, and held her to his breast.
“I have come, dearest. May Christ guard and free thee, beloved Lygia!” He could say no more, for the heart began to whine in his breast from pain and love, and he would not show pain in her presence.
“I am sick, Marcus,” said Lygia, “and I must die either on the arena or here in prison—I have prayed to see thee before death; thou hast come,—Christ has heard me.”—