Another muttering of compassion was heard.
“Catulus!” shouted the baffled judge in fury; “do your duty, sirrah! what are you about, fumbling all day with that torch?”
The executioner advanced, and stretched forth his hand to her robe, to withdraw it for the torture; but he drew back, and, turning to the prefect, exclaimed in softened accents:
“It is too late. She is dead!”
“Dead!” cried out Tertullus; “dead with one turn of the wheel? impossible!”
Catulus gave the rack a turn backwards, and the body remained motionless. It was true; she had passed from the rack to the throne, from the scowl of the judge’s countenance to her Spouse’s welcoming embrace. Had she breathed out her pure soul, as a sweet perfume, in the incense of her prayer? or had her heart been unable to get back its blood, from the intensity of that first virginal blush?[155]
In the stillness of awe and wonder, a clear bold voice cried out, from the group near the door: “Impious tyrant, dost thou not see, that a poor blind Christian hath more power over life and death, than thou or thy cruel masters?”
“What! a third time in twenty-four hours wilt thou dare to cross my path? This time thou shalt not escape.”
These were Corvinus’s words, garnished with a furious imprecation, as he rushed from his father’s side round the enclosure before the tribunal, towards the group. But as he ran blindly on, he struck against an officer of herculean build, who, no doubt quite accidentally, was advancing from it. He reeled, and the soldier caught hold of him, saying:
“You are not hurt, I hope, Corvinus?”