Immediately the cords were relaxed and the victim lowered to the ground. Blanda threw a mantle over her.
“She will sacrifice,” said Æmilius; “take off the cords.”
The executioners looked to the magistrate. He nodded, and they obeyed. The bonds were rapidly removed from her hands and feet.
“Blanda, sustain her!” commanded Æmilius, and he on one side, with his arm round the sinking, quivering form, and the slave-woman on the other, supported Perpetua. Her feet dragged and traced a furrow in the sand; they were numbed and powerless through the tension of the cords that had been knotted about the ankles. Æmilius and Blanda drew her towards the altar.
“I cannot! I will not sacrifice! I am a Christian. I believe in Christ! I love Christ!”
“Perpetua,” said Æmilius in agitated tones, [pg 283]“your happiness and mine depend on compliance. For all I have done for you, if you will not for your own sake—consent to this. Here! I will hold your hand. Nay, it is I who will strew the incense, and make it appear as though it were done by you. Priest! The shell with the grains.”
“Spare me! I cannot!” gasped the girl, struggling in his arms. “I cannot be false to my Christ—for all that He has done for me.”
“You shall. I must constrain you.” He set his teeth, knitted his brow. All his muscles were set in desperation. He strove to force her hand to the altar.
“Shame on thee!” sobbed she. “Thou art more cruel than the torturer, more unjust than the judge.”
It was so. Æmilius felt that she was right. They did but insult and rack a frail body, and he did violence to the soul within.