“I cannot. I pray daily to God for him.”
“A wilful man is like a stubborn ass. There is naught for him but the stick. I can do no more. I shall sentence you.”
“I am ready to die for Christ.”
“Then lead him away. The sword!”
The deacon bowed. “I am unworthy of shedding my blood for Christ,” he said, and his voice, though low, was firm.
Then he looked around and saw the Bishop Castor in the zone allotted to the citizens and knights. Baudillas crossed his arms on his breast and knelt on the sand, and the bishop, rising from his seat, extended his hand in benediction.
He, Castor, had not been called to sacrifice. He had not courted death, but he had not shrunk from it. He had not concealed himself, nevertheless he had been passed over.
Then the deacon, with firm step, walked into the center of the arena and knelt down.
In another moment his head was severed from the body.
The attendants immediately removed every trace of the execution, and now arrived the moment for which all had looked with impatience.