Between the first door and the second, which appeared to be almost entirely formed of iron, there intervened a few broad steps of mason-work; and upon the lowest of these, I stood waiting till he should open the inner door. Several keys were applied before he discovered the right one; but at last the heavy door swung away from before him so speedily, that the air, rushing out of the vault, extinguished the torch; insomuch, that we had no light excepting that which streamed from an aperture high up in the wall of the dungeon itself; a feeble ray of star-light alone—for the moon had, long ere this time, been gone down—which, nevertheless, sufficed to shew us to the prisoner, although we at first could see nothing of him.
“Soldiers,” said the old man, in a voice of perfect calmness, “for what reason are you come?”—“We come,” said my companion, “by command of the Centurion, to inform you of things which we would willingly not have to tell—To-morrow Trajan opens the [pg 75]Amphitheatre of Vespasian.”—“My comrade,” said the prisoner, “is it your voice I hear? I knew all this already; and you know of old that I fear not the face of death.”—“I know well, Tisias, you fear not death; yet why, when there is no need, should you cast away life? Think well, I beseech you, and reserve yourself for a better day.”—“The dawn of that better day, Romans, already begins to open upon my eyes. I see the east red with the promise of its brightness. Would you have me tarry in darkness, when I am invited to walk forth into the light?”—“Your words rejoice me,” answered the spearman; “and I am sure all will rejoice in hearing that you have at length come to think thus—Trajan himself will rejoice. You have but to say the word, and you are free,”—“You mean kindly,” said the old man, rising from his pallet, and walking towards us as far as his fetters permitted; “but you are much mistaken—I have but to keep silence, and I am free.”—“Alas! what mean you? Do you know what you say? You must worship the gods in the morning, else you die.”—“Evening, and morning, and for ever, I must worship the God that made heaven and earth. If I bow down to the idols of Trajan, I buy the life of a day at the price of death everlasting. Tempt me not in your kindness: I fell once. Great God, preserve me from falling! I have bade farewell to my friends already. Leave me to spend these few hours by myself.—Leave me to prepare the flesh for that from which the spirit shrinks not.” So saying, he extended his hand to the spearman, and the two old men embraced each other before me.
“Prisoner,” said I, “if there be any thing in which [pg 76]we can serve you, command our aid. We have already done our duty; if we can also do any thing that may give ease to your mind now, or comfort to your kindred, you have but to speak.”—“Sir,” replied he, “I see by the eagle wings on your helmet, that you are one in authority, and I hear by your voice that you are young. There is a certain thing, concerning which I had some purpose to speak to this old brother.”—“Speak with confidence,” said I; “although I am a Roman, and bear all loyalty to Cæsar, yet this Prætorian helmet is not mine, and I have but assumed it for the sake of having access to your prison. I am no soldier of Trajan: Whatever I can do for you without harm to others, speak, and I will do it. I will swear to you——” “Nay, sir,” said he, “swear not—mock not the God of heaven, by invoking idol or demon—I believe your word—but, since you will hear, there is no need why any other should be witness to my request.”—“I will retire,” said the other, “and keep watch at the door. I am but a poor spearman, and this young patrician can do more than I.”—“Be it so,” said the prisoner, a second time embracing him; “I would not willingly expose you to any needless danger; and yet I see not what danger there is in all that I have to ask.”
With this the spearman withdrew; and being left alone with Tisias, I took his hand, and sitting down beside him on his pallet, shortly explained to him the circumstances under which I had come thither.
“Young sir,” said he, “I know not what is about the sound of your voice, and the frankness of your demeanour, that makes me feel confidence enough to intrust you with a certain thing, which concerns not [pg 77]myself, nor any hope of mine, for that were little—but the interests of one that is far dearer to me than I can express, and who, I hope, will live many happy days upon earth, after I shall have sealed my belief in the message of God, by blood that has of old been exposed a thousand times to all mortal perils, for the sake of worthless things. But a very short while ago, and I might have executed this thing for myself; but weakness overcame me at the moment of parting.”
“If it be any thing which you would have me convey to any one, say where I may find the person,” said I, “and be assured I shall deliver it in safety.”
“Sir,” he proceeded, “I have here with me certain writings, which I have carried for these twenty years continually in my bosom. Among these, is one of the sacred books of the faith for which I am to die, and I would fain have it placed in the hands of one to whom I know it will be dearest of all for the sake of that which it contains; but, I hope, dear also for the sake of him that bequeaths it. Will you seek out a certain Roman lady, and undertake to give into her own hands, in secret, the scroll which I shall give you?”—“I will do my endeavour,” said I; “and if I cannot find means to execute your command, I shall destroy the book with my own hands before I quit Rome—for my stay here is uncertain.”—“If you cannot find means to do what I ask safely,” he replied, “I do not bid you destroy the book—that is yours to do with as it shall seem good to you—but I conjure you to read it before you throw it away. Nay, even as it is, I conjure you to read it before you seek to give it to her whose name I shall [pg 78]mention.”—“Old man,” said I, “almost I believe that I already know her name, and more besides. If it be so that I have conjectured aright, be assured that all you ask shall be fulfilled to the letter; be assured also, that I would die with you to-morrow, rather than live to be the cause or instrument of any evil thing to her that but now visited you in your dungeon.”—“Alas!” cried the old man, starting up, “lay not this also, O Lord! upon my head. Let the old bear witness—but let the young be spared, to serve thee in happier years upon the earth!”—“Be not afraid,” said I, “if it was Athanasia, no one suspected it but myself; and I have already told you that I would die rather than bring evil upon her head.”
“Yes,” he answered, after a pause—“it was, indeed, Athanasia. Who is it but she that would have left the halls of nobles, and the couches of peace, to breathe at midnight the air of a dungeon, that she might solace the last moments of a poor man, and, save the bond of Christ, a stranger! But if you have known her before, and spoken with her before, then surely she must indeed be safe in your hands. You know where she dwells—that I myself know not. Here is the scroll, from which that noble maiden has heard my humble voice essay to expound the words of eternal life. I charge you to approach her with reverence, and give into her own hands my dying bequest; yet, as I have said, deliver it not to her till you have yourself read what it contains.”—“Christian,” said I, placing the writing in my bosom, “have no fear—I will read your book, and ere two nights have gone over my head, I shall find means to place it in the hands of Athanasia; and now, fare[pg 79]well.”—“Nay, not yet for the last time. Will you not come in the morning, and behold the death of a Christian?”—“Alas!” said I, “what will it avail that I should witness the shedding of your blood? The Prince may have reason to regard you as an offender against the state; but I have spoken with you in your solitude, and know that your heart is noble. Would to Heaven, that by going thither I could avert your fate!”—“Methinks, sir,” he replied, “it may be weakness—but yet methinks it would give me some farther comfort in my death, to know that there was at least one Roman there, who would not see me die without pity; and besides I must have you constrain yourself, that you may be able to carry the tidings of my departure. Her prayers will be with me, but not her eyes. You must tell Athanasia the manner of my death.”—“For that cause,” said I, “I will constrain myself, and be present in the Amphitheatre.”—“Then, farewell,” said he; “——and yet go not. In whatsoever faith you live,—in whatsoever faith you die, the blessing of an old man and a Christian can do you no harm.” So saying, the old man stood up, and leaning his hand on my head as I sat, pronounced over me a blessing which I never shall forget. “The Lord bless thee—the Lord enlighten thy darkness—the Lord plant his seed in thy kind heart—the Lord give thee also to die the death of a Christian!”
When he had said so, he sat down again; and I departed greatly oppressed in spirit, yet feeling, I know not how or why, as I would rather have lost many merry days, than that dark and sorrowful hour. The soldiers in the guard-room were so much engaged in [pg 80]their different occupations, that they heeded me not as, dropping my borrowed habiliments, I stept silently to the gate; and I was soon out of sight of their flaming watch-fires, and far from the sounds of their noisy mirth.