“We have adopted the gods of many nations,” said Pontius Mamurra, “nor do I see why, because the Jews have been unfortunate in a contest with Rome, we should take it for granted that theirs are unworthy of respect. If, however, as we have heard asserted, he who embraces this creed becomes an infidel in regard to the deities of Rome, I say Cæsar does well in refusing toleration to the intolerant superstition. Domitian was a tyrant, and a monster of humanity; the late prince was wise and good; and yet it may be, that, in regard to these Christians, the principle of Domitian’s conduct was right in the main, and that of Nerva’s wrong. But you, Capito, regard both sides of the question, I have no doubt, with the same indifference.”
“I hope,” replied Capito, “I shall never regard with indifference any question, in which the interest of the empire and the honour of Trajan are concerned. But if you mean only that I am indifferent about the nature of this Syrian superstition, you are in the right. I have no knowledge of its dogmas, nor desire to have. I presume they have their share of that old eastern barbarity, in the shady places of which the elder Greeks used to think they could discover the outlines of something really grand and majestic.”
“It may be so,” said Mamurra; “but if the superstition be found dangerous to the state, the Prince does well in repressing its progress. That is the only question of which I spake.”—“There is, indeed, no other,” said Capito; “I thought of none.”—“And how do you answer it, dear uncle?” said Athanasia, (lifting herself up, for the first time, to take part in the conversation.)—“Nay, my love,” said the old man, “to answer that is the business of Cæsar, and of the Senate. I only regret, that blood should be shed, and citizens exiled; above all, in the reign of a just and merciful Prince.—Sempronia,” continued he, “what is that strange story your father was telling about one of the daughters of Serennius?”
“They only allege,” replied Sempronia, with a smile, “that Tertulla had a flirtation with a handsome young Greek, and the Greek happened to be a Christian,—and she was converted by the Greek,—and she was found out in going with him to some secret assembly of these people, in a vault by the Vatican Hill,—and her father has been glad to send her to Corsica, partly to escape the lawyers, and partly, I suppose, in hopes [pg 45]that the quietness of the island, and the absence of handsome young Christians, may perhaps, in time, restore poor Tertulla to her right mind—This is all. Do you think that a strange story, uncle?” “Not, if it be exactly as you have told it, Sempronia. What says Athanasia?” Athanasia answered gravely, that she was sorry for Tertulla, and had never heard any thing of the young Greek before.
By this time, the increasing darkness of the chamber had warned me that we ought to be thinking of our return. I had more than once looked towards Sextus, but he refused to meet my eye. When I was on the point of speaking, Sempronia, starting from her couch, exclaimed, that she was sure there was thunder in the skies; and presently flash after flash gleamed along the horizon. All sat silent, as if awe-struck; but Sempronia was the only one that seemed to be in terror from the tempest. Nevertheless, my eyes rested more on Athanasia, who looked paler than she had done, although her countenance preserved its serenity. “How awful,” said I, “is the voice of Jupiter!” Athanasia folded her arms upon her bosom, and lifting her eyes to heaven, said in a whisper,—“How awful is the voice of God!” She then dropt her hand on the end of her couch, and half unconsciously taking hold of it in mine, I asked her if she was afraid. “No,” said she, “I am not afraid, but the heaviness of the air makes me faint, and I never can listen to thunder without feeling something extraordinary within me.”
Capito said, he could not think of our going into the city that evening, and that we must all make up our minds to remain in the villa. The countenance of [pg 46]Sextus brightened up, and he looked to me as if to ask my assent. I was easily persuaded, and our host despatched a messenger to inform Licinius of the cause of our absence. The old man then led us into another apartment, which was richly furnished with books and paintings. Here he read for some time out of one of the poets, to a party, none of whom, I am afraid, were very attentive in listening to him, till, the hour of rest being come, we were conducted to our several apartments, Sextus and myself, indeed, being lodged in the same chamber.
We were no sooner left alone than I began to rally my friend on the beauty of his mistress, and the earnest court he had been paying her. The youth listened with blushes of delight to her praises, but seemed not to have the least idea that he had been so fortunate as to make any impression on her mind. On the contrary, he scarcely appeared to be aware of having done any thing to attract attention from her, and expressed astonishment when I assured him, that his behaviour had been such as could not possibly admit of more than one explanation in the eyes of a person so quick and vivacious as the lovely Sempronia.
After we had both retired to our beds, and the lights were extinguished, we still continued for some time to talk over the incidents of our visit, and the future prospects of Sextus and his love; until at length sleep overpowered us in easy bonds, and agreeable dreams followed, I doubt not, in the hearts of us both, the thoughts and sights of a delightful day. Mine surely were delightful, for they were all of Athanasia. Yet, even in the visions of the night, I could never gaze [pg 47]on her face without some strange impression of mystery. I saw her placid smile—I heard the sweet low cadence of her voice—but I felt, and I could not feel it without a certain indescribable anxiety, that her deep thoughts were far away.