“It is his blood,” replied the youth, “which yet remains flowing in my veins, and in these only. I know he must wish that it too, like what he held in his own, may be poured out in love of his Redeemer, and in testimony of his faith.”
“Enough, enough, my child!” exclaimed the mother, thrilling with a holy emotion; “take from thy neck the badge of childhood, I have a better token to give thee.”
He obeyed, and put away the golden bulla.
“Thou hast inherited from thy father,” spoke the mother, with still deeper solemnity of tone, “a noble name, a high station, ample riches, every worldly advantage. But there is one treasure which I have reserved for thee from his inheritance, till thou shouldst prove thyself worthy of it. I have concealed it from thee till now, though I valued it more than gold and jewels. It is now time that I make it over to thee.”
With trembling hands she drew from her neck the golden chain which hung round it, and for the first time her son saw that it supported a small bag or purse richly embroidered and set with gems. She opened it, and drew from it a sponge, dry indeed, but deeply stained.
“With trembling hands she drew from her neck the golden chain.”
“This, too, is thy father’s blood, Pancratius,” she said, with faltering voice and streaming eyes. “I gathered it myself from his death-wound, as, disguised, I stood by his side, and saw him die from the wounds he had received for Christ.”
She gazed upon it fondly, and kissed it fervently; and her gushing tears fell on it, and moistened it once more. And thus liquefied again, its color glowed bright and warm, as if it had only just left the martyr’s heart.
