Saint Agnes. From an old vase.
“And so you have come to me as usual,” said the other playfully, “in your own snow-white dress, without jewel or ornament, as if you were every day a bride. You always seem to me to be celebrating one eternal espousal. But, good heavens! what is this? Are you hurt? Or are you aware that there is, right on the bosom of your tunic, a large red spot—it looks like blood. If so, let me change your dress at once.”
“Not for the world, Fabiola; it is the jewel, the only ornament I mean to wear this evening. It is blood, and that of a slave; but nobler, in my eyes, and more generous, than flows in your veins or mine.”
The whole truth flashed upon Fabiola’s mind. Agnes had seen all; and humbled almost to sickening, she said somewhat pettishly, “Do you then wish to exhibit proof to all the world of my hastiness of temper, in over-chastising a forward slave?”
“No, dear cousin, far from it. I only wish to preserve for myself a lesson of fortitude, and of elevation of mind, learnt from a slave, such as few patrician philosophers can teach us.”
“What a strange idea! Indeed, Agnes, I have often thought that you make too much of that class of people. After all, what are they?”
Saint Agnes. From an old vase preserved in the Vatican Museum.
“Human beings as much as ourselves, endowed with the same reason, the same feelings, the same organization. Thus far you will admit, at any rate, to go no higher. Then they form part of the same family; and if God, from whom comes our life, is thereby our Father, He is theirs as much, and consequently they are our brethren.”