gia. Through the grating in the wall
moonbeams came in, and gave better light than the one candle burning
yet over the entrance. Lygia opened her eyes now, and said, placing her
feverish hand on the arm of Vinicius,

"I see thee; I knew that thou wouldst come."

He seized her hands, pressed them to his forehead and his heart, raised
her somewhat, and held her to his breast.

"I have come, dearest. May Christ guard and free thee, beloved Lygia!"
He could say no more, for the heart began to whine in his breast from
pain and love, and he would not show pain in her presence.

"I am sick, Marcus," said Lygia, "and I must die either on the arena
or here in prison--I have prayed to see thee before death; thou hast
come,--Christ has heard me."--

Unable to utter a word yet, he pressed her to his bosom, and she
continued,--

"I saw thee through the window in the Tullianum. I saw that thou hadst
the wish to come to me. Now the Redeemer has given me a moment of
consciousness, so that we may take farewell of each other. I am going to
Him, Marcus, but I love thee, and shall love always."

Vinicius conquered himself; he stifled his pain and began to speak in a
voice which he tried to make calm,--

"No, dear Lygia, thou wilt not die. The Apostle commanded me to believe,
and he promised to pray for thee; he knew Christ,--Christ loved him and
will not refuse him. Hadst thou to die, Peter would not have commanded
me to be confident; but he said, 'Have confidence!'--No, Lygia! Christ
will have mercy. He does not wish thy death. He will not permit it.
I Swear to thee by the name of the Redeemer that Peter is praying for
thee."

Silence followed. The one candle hanging above the entrance went out,
but moonlight entered through the whole opening. In the opposite corner
of the cellar a child whined and was silent. From outside came the
voices of pretorians, who, after watching their turn out, were playing
under the wall at scriptoe duodecim.

"O Marcus," said Lygia, "Christ Himself called to the Father, 'Remove
this bitter cup from Me'; still He drank it. Christ Himself died on the
cross, and thousands are perishing for His sake. Why, then, should He
spare me alone? Who am I, Marcus? I have heard Peter say that he too
would die in torture. Who am I, compared with Peter? When the pretorians
came to us, I dreaded death and torture, but I dread them no longer. See
what a terrible prison this is, but I am going to heaven. Think of it: