She pointed with calm scorn at Fulvius, who bounded forward, and exclaimed with fury: “She lies, foully and calumniously, sir. Agnes openly confessed herself a Christian.”
“Bear with me, sir,” replied the lady, with noble dignity, “while I convict him; and look on his face for proof of what I say. Didst thou not, Fulvius, early this morning, seek that gentle child in her cell, and deliberately tell her (for unseen, I heard you) that if she would but accept thy hand, not only wouldst thou save her life, but, despising the imperial commands, secure her still remaining a Christian?”
Fulvius stood, pale as death: stood, as one does for a moment who is shot through the heart, or struck by lightning. He looked like a man on whom sentence is going to be pronounced,—not of death, but of eternal pillory, as the judge addressed him, saying:
“Fulvius, thy very look confirms this grievous charge. I could arraign thee on it, for thy head, at once. But take my counsel, begone hence forever. Flee, and hide thyself, after such villany, from the indignation of all just men, and from the vengeance of the gods. Show not thy face again here, nor in the Forum, nor in any public place of Rome. If this lady pleases, even now I will take her deposition against thee. Pray, madam,” he asked most respectfully, “may I have the honor of knowing your name?”
“Fabiola,” she replied.
The judge was now all complacency, for he saw before him, he hoped, his future daughter-in-law. “I have often heard of you, madam,” he said, “and of your high accomplishments and exalted virtues. You are, moreover, nearly allied to this victim of treachery, and have a right to claim her body. It is at your disposal.” This speech was interrupted at its beginning by a loud hiss and yell that accompanied Fulvius’s departure. He was pale with shame, terror, and rage.
Fabiola gracefully thanked the prefect, and beckoned to Syra, who attended her. The servant again made a signal to some one else; and presently four slaves appeared bearing a lady’s litter. Fabiola would allow no one but herself and Syra to raise the relics from the ground, place them on the litter, and cover them with their precious pall. “Bear this treasure to its own home,” she said, and followed as mourner with her maid. A little girl, all in tears, timidly asked if she might join them.
A Blood Urn, used as a mark for a martyr’s grave.
“Who art thou?” asked Fabiola.