Chapter LX

FOR three days, or rather three nights, nothing disturbed their peace.

When the usual prison work was finished, which consisted in separating

the dead from the living and the grievously sick from those in better

health, when the wearied guards had lain down to sleep in the corridors,

Vinicius entered Lygia’s dungeon and remained there till daylight. She

put her head on his breast, and they talked in low voices of love and

of death. In thought and speech, in desires and hopes even, both were

removed unconsciously more and more from life, and they lost the sense

of it. Both were like people who, having sailed from land in a ship,

saw the shore no more, and were sinking gradually into infinity. Both

changed by degrees into sad souls in love with each other and with

Christ, and ready to fly away. Only at times did pain start up in the

heart of Vinicius like a whirlwind, at times there flashed in him like

lightning, hope, born of love and faith in the crucified God; but he

tore himself away more and more each day from the earth, and yielded to

death. In the morning, when he went from the prison, he looked on the

world, on the city, on acquaintances, on vital interests, as through a

dream. Everything seemed to him strange, distant, vain, fleeting. Even

torture ceased to terrify, since one might pass through it while sunk

in thought and with eyes fixed on another thing. It seemed to both that

eternity had begun to receive them. They conversed of how they would

love and live together, but beyond the grave; and if their thoughts

returned to the earth at intervals, these were thoughts of people who,

setting out on a long journey, speak of preparations for the road.

Moreover they were surrounded by such silence as in some desert

surrounds two columns far away and forgotten. Their only care was that

Christ should not separate them; and as each moment strengthened their

conviction that He would not, they loved Him as a link uniting them in

endless happiness and peace. While still on earth, the dust of earth

fell from them. The soul of each was as pure as a tear. Under terror of

death, amid misery and suffering, in that prison den, heaven had begun,

for she had taken him by the hand, and, as if saved and a saint, had led

him to the source of endless life.

Petronius was astonished at seeing in the face of Vinicius increasing

peace and a certain wonderful serenity which he had not noted before. At

times even he supposed that Vinicius had found some mode of rescue, and

he was piqued because his nephew had not confided his hopes to him. At

last, unable to restrain himself, he said,--

“Now thou hast another look; do not keep from me secrets, for I wish and

am able to aid thee. Hast thou arranged anything?”

“I have,” said Vinicius; “but thou canst not help me. After her death I

will confess that I am a Christian and follow her.”

“Then thou hast no hope?”

“On the contrary, I have. Christ will give her to me, and I shall never

be separated from her.”

Petronius began to walk in the atrium; disillusion and impatience were

evident on his face.

“Thy Christ is not needed for this,--our Thanatos [death] can render the

same service.”

Vinicius smiled sadly, and said,--“No, my dear, thou art unwilling to

understand.”

“I am unwilling and unable. It is not the time for discussion, but

remember what I said when we failed to free her from the Tullianum. I

lost all hope, and on the way home thou didst say, ‘But I believe that

Christ can restore her to me.’ Let Him restore her. If I throw a costly

goblet into the sea, no god of ours can give it back to me; if yours is

no better, I know not why I should honor Him beyond the old ones.”

“But He will restore her to me.”

Pettonius shrugged his shoulders. “Dost know,” inquired he, “that

Christians are to illuminate Cæsar’s gardens to-morrow?”

“To-morrow?” repeated Vinicius.

And in view of the near and dreadful reality his heart trembled with

pain and fear. “This is the last night, perhaps, which I can pass with

Lygia,” thought he. So bidding farewell to Petronius, he went hurriedly

to the overseer of the “Putrid Pits” for his tessera. But disappointment

was in waiting,--the overseer would not give the tessera.

“Pardon me,” said he, “I have done what I could for thee, but I cannot

risk my life. To-night they are to conduct the Christians to Cæsar’s

gardens. The prisons will be full of soldiers and officials. Shouldst

thou be recognized, I and my children would be lost.”

Vinicius understood that it would be vain to insist. The hope gleamed in

him, however, that the soldiers who had seen him before would admit

him even without a tessera; so, with the coming of night, he disguised

himself as usual in the tunic of a corpse-bearer, and, winding a cloth

around his head, betook himself to the prison.

But that day the tesseræ were verified with greater care than usual; and

what was more, the centurion Scevinus, a strict soldier, devoted soul

and body to Cæsar, recognized Vinicius. But evidently in his iron-clad

breast there glimmered yet some spark of pity for misfortunes. Instead

of striking his spear in token of alarm, he led Vinicius aside and

said,--

“Return to thy house, lord. I recognize thee; but not wishing thy ruin,

I am silent. I cannot admit thee; go thy way, and may the gods send thee

solace.”

“Thou canst not admit me,” said Vinicius, “but let me stand here and

look at those who are led forth.”

“My order does not forbid that,” said Scevinus.

Vinicius stood before the gate and waited. About midnight the prison

gate was opened widely, and whole ranks of prisoners appeared,--men,

women, and children, surrounded by armed pretorians. The night was very

bright; hence it was possible to distinguish not only the forms, but

the faces of the unfortunates. They went two abreast, in a long, gloomy

train, amid stillness broken only by the clatter of weapons. So many

were led out that all the dungeons must be empty, as it seemed. In the

rear of the line Vinicius saw Glaucus the physician distinctly, but

Lygia and Ursus were not among the condemned.