“Then that meeting was a Christian meeting?”
“Certainly; what else could it be?”
He wanted no more; his suspicions were verified. Agnes, about whom Torquatus had been able or willing to tell him nothing, was certainly a Christian. His game was made. She must yield, or he would be avenged.
After a pause, looking at her steadfastly, he said, “Do you know whither you are going?”
“Before the judge of earth, I suppose, who will send me to my Spouse in heaven.”
“And so calmly?” he asked in surprise; for he could see no token from the soul to the countenance, but a smile.
“So joyfully rather,” was her brief reply.
Having got all that he desired, he consigned his prisoner to Corvinus at the gates of the Æmilian basilica, and left her to her fate. It had been a cold and drizzling day like the preceding evening. The weather, and the incident of the night, had kept down all enthusiasm; and while the prefect had been compelled to sit in-doors, where no great crowd could collect, as hours had passed away without any arrest, trial, or tidings, most of the curious had left, and only a few more persevering remained, past the hour of afternoon recreation in the public gardens. But just before the captive arrived, a fresh knot of spectators came in, and stood near one of the side-doors, from which they could see all.
As Corvinus had prepared his father for what he was to expect, Tertullus, moved with some compassion, and imagining there could be little difficulty in overcoming the obstinacy of a poor, ignorant, blind beggar, requested the spectators to remain perfectly still, that he might try his persuasion on her, alone, as she would imagine, with him; and he threatened heavy penalties on any one who should presume to break the silence.
It was as he had calculated. Cæcilia knew not that any one else was there, as the prefect thus kindly addressed her: