THE FIRST FLOWER.
Cæcilia, already forewarned, had approached the cemetery by a different,
but neighboring entrance. No sooner had she descended than she snuffed
the strong odor of the torches. “This is none of _our_ incense, I know,”
she said to herself; “the enemy is already within.” She hastened
therefore to the place of assembly and delivered Sebastian’s note;
adding also what she had observed. It warned them to disperse and seek
the shelter of the inner and lower galleries; and begged of the Pontiff
not to leave till he should send for him, as his person was particularly
sought for.
Pancratius urged the blind messenger to save herself too. “No,” she
replied, “my office is to watch the door, and guide the faithful safe.”
“But the enemy may seize you.”
“No matter,” she answered, laughing; “my being taken may save much
worthier lives. Give me a lamp, Pancratius.”
“Why, you cannot see by it,” observed he, smiling.
“True, but others can.”
“They may be your enemies.”
“Even so,” she answered, “I do not wish to be taken in the dark. If my
Bridegroom come to me in the night of this cemetery, must He not find
me with my lamp trimmed?”
Off she started, reached her post, and hearing no noise except that of
quiet footsteps, she thought they were those of friends, and held up her
lamp to guide them.
When the party came forth, with their only captive, Fulvius was
perfectly furious. It was worse than a total failure: it was
ridiculous--a poor mouse come out of the bowels of the earth. He rallied
Corvinus till the wretch winced and foamed; then suddenly he asked, “And
where is Torquatus?” He heard the account of his sudden disappearance,
told in as many ways as the Dacian guard’s adventure: but it annoyed him
greatly. He had no doubt whatever, in his own mind, that he had been
duped by his supposed victim, who had escaped into the unsearchable
mazes of the cemetery. If so, this captive would know, and he determined
to question her. He stood before her, therefore, put on his most
searching and awful look, and said to her sternly, “Look at me, woman,
and tell me the truth.”
“I must tell you the truth without looking at you, sir,” answered the
poor girl, with her cheerfullest smile and softest voice; “do you not
see that I am blind?”
“Blind!” all exclaimed at once, as they crowded to look at her. But over
the features of Fulvius there passed the slightest possible emotion,
just as much as the wave that runs, pursued by a playful breeze, over
the ripe meadow. A knowledge had flashed into his mind, a clue had
fallen into his hand.
“It will be ridiculous,” he said, “for twenty soldiers to march through
the city, guarding a blind girl. Return to your quarters, and I will see
you are well rewarded. You, Corvinus, take my horse, and go before to
your father, and tell him all, I will follow in a carriage with the
captive.”
“No treachery, Fulvius,” he said, vexed and mortified. “Mind you bring
her. The day must not pass without a sacrifice.”
“Do not fear,” was the reply.
Fulvius, indeed, was pondering whether, having lost one spy, he should
not try to make another. But the placid gentleness of the poor beggar
perplexed him more than the boisterous zeal of the gamester, and her
sightless orbs defied him more than the restless roll of the toper’s.
Still, the first thought that had struck him he could yet pursue. When
alone in a carriage with her, he assumed a soothing tone, and addressed
her. He knew she had not overheard the last dialogue.
“My poor girl,” he said, “how long have you been blind?”
“All my life,” she replied.
“What is your history? Whence do you come?”
“I have no history. My parents were poor, and brought me to Rome when I
was four years old, as they came to pray, in discharge of a vow made for
my life in early sickness, to the blessed martyrs Chrysanthus and Daria.
They left me in charge of a pious lame woman, at the door of the title
of Fasciola, while they went to their devotions. It was on that
memorable day, when many Christians were buried at their tomb, by earth
and stones cast down upon them. My parents had the happiness to be of
the number.”
“And how have you lived since?”
“God became my only Father then, and His Catholic Church my mother. The
one feeds the birds of the air, the other nurses the weaklings of the
flock. I have never wanted for any thing since.”
“But you can walk about the streets freely, and without fear, as well as
if you saw.”
“How do you know that?”
“I have seen you. Do you remember very early one morning in the autumn,
leading a poor lame man along the Vicus Patricius?”
She blushed and remained silent. Could he have seen her put into the
poor old man’s purse her own share of the alms?
“You have owned yourself a Christian?” he asked negligently.
“Oh, yes! how could I deny it?”
“Then that meeting was a Christian meeting?”
“Certainly; what else could it be?”
He wanted no more; his suspicions were verified. Agnes, about whom
Torquatus had been able or willing to tell him nothing, was certainly a
Christian. His game was made. She must yield, or he would be avenged.
After a pause, looking at her steadfastly, he said, “Do you know whither
you are going?”
“Before the judge of earth, I suppose, who will send me to my Spouse in
heaven.”
“And so calmly?” he asked in surprise; for he could see no token from
the soul to the countenance, but a smile.
“So joyfully rather,” was her brief reply.
Having got all that he desired, he consigned his prisoner to Corvinus at
the gates of the Æmilian basilica, and left her to her fate. It had been
a cold and drizzling day like the preceding evening. The weather, and
the incident of the night, had kept down all enthusiasm; and while the
prefect had been compelled to sit in-doors, where no great crowd could
collect, as hours had passed away without any arrest, trial, or tidings,
most of the curious had left, and only a few more persevering remained,
past the hour of afternoon recreation in the public gardens. But just
before the captive arrived, a fresh knot of spectators came in, and
stood near one of the side-doors, from which they could see all.
As Corvinus had prepared his father for what he was to expect,
Tertullus, moved with some compassion, and imagining there could be
little difficulty in overcoming the obstinacy of a poor, ignorant, blind
beggar, requested the spectators to remain perfectly still, that he
might try his persuasion on her, alone, as she would imagine, with him;
and he threatened heavy penalties on any one who should presume to break
the silence.
It was as he had calculated. Cæcilia knew not that any one else was
there, as the prefect thus kindly addressed her:
“What is thy name, child?”
“Cæcilia.”
“It is a noble name; hast thou it from thy family?”
“No; I am not noble; except because my parents, though poor, died for
Christ. As I am blind, those who took care of me called me _Cæca_,[153]
and then, out of kindness, softened it into Cæcilia.”
“But now, give up all this folly of the Christians, who have kept thee
only poor and blind. Honor the decrees of the divine emperors, and offer
sacrifice to the gods; and thou shalt have riches, and fine clothes, and
good fare; and the best physicians shall try to restore thee thy sight.”
“You must have better motives to propose to me than these; for the very
things for which I most thank God and His Divine Son, are those which
you would have me put away.”
“How dost thou mean?”
“I thank God that I am poor and meanly clad, and fare not daintily;
because by all these things I am the more like Jesus Christ, my only
Spouse.”
“Foolish girl!” interrupted the judge, losing patience a little; “hast
thou learnt all these silly delusions already? at least thou canst not
thank thy God that He has made thee sightless.”
“For that, more than all the rest, I thank Him daily and hourly with all
my heart.”
“How so? dost thou think it a blessing never to have seen the face of a
human being, or the sun, or the earth? What strange fancies are these?”
“They are not so, most noble sir. For in the midst of what you call
darkness, I see a spot of what I must call light, it contrasts so
strongly with all around. It is to me what the sun is to you, which I
know to be local from the varying direction of its rays. And this object
looks upon me as with a countenance of intensest beauty, and smiles upon
me ever. And I know it to be that of Him whom I love with undivided
affection. I would not for the world have its splendor dimmed by a
brighter sun, nor its wondrous loveliness confounded with the
diversities of others’ features, nor my gaze on it drawn aside by
earthly visions. I love Him too much not to wish to see Him always
alone.”
“Come, come! let me have no more of this silly prattle. Obey the
emperors at once, or I must try what a little pain will do. That will
soon tame thee.”
“Pain?” she echoed innocently.
“Yes, pain. Hast thou never felt it? hast thou never been hurt by any
one in thy life?”
“Oh, no! Christians never hurt one another.”
The rack was standing, as usual, before him; and he made a sign to
Catulus to place her upon it. The executioner pushed her back on it by
her arms; and as she made no resistance, she was easily laid extended on
its wooden couch. The loops of the ever-ready ropes were in a moment
passed round her ankles, and arms drawn over the head. The poor
sightless girl saw not who did all this; she knew not but it might be
the same person who had been conversing with her. If there had been
silence hitherto, men now held their very breath; while Cæcilia’s lips
moved in earnest prayer.
“Once more, before proceeding further, I call on thee to sacrifice to
the gods, and escape cruel torments,” said the judge, with a sterner
voice.
“Neither torments nor death,” firmly replied the victim tied to the
altar, “shall separate me from the love of Christ. I can offer up no
sacrifice but to the one living God: and its ready oblation is myself.”
The prefect made a signal to the executioner, and he gave one rapid
whirl to the two wheels of the rack, round the windlasses of which the
ropes were wound; and the limbs of the maiden were stretched with a
sudden jerk, which, though not enough to wrench them from their sockets,
as a further turn would have done, sufficed to inflict an excruciating,
or more truly, a _racking_ pain, through all her frame. Far more
grievous was this, from the preparation and the cause of it being
unseen, and from that additional suffering which darkness inflicts. A
quivering of her features and a sudden paleness alone gave evidence of
her torture.
“Ha! ha!” the judge exclaimed, “thou feelest that? Come, let it suffice;
obey, and thou shalt be freed.”
She seemed to take no heed of his words, but gave vent to her feelings
in prayer: “I thank Thee, O Lord Jesus Christ, that Thou hast made me
suffer pain the first time for Thy sake. I have loved Thee in peace; I
have loved Thee in comfort; I have loved Thee in joy,--and now in pain I
love Thee still more. How much sweeter it is to be like Thee, stretched
upon Thy Cross, even than resting upon the hard couch at the poor man’s
table!”
“Thou triflest with me,” exclaimed the judge, thoroughly vexed, “and
makest light of my lenity. We will try something stronger. Here,
Catulus, apply a lighted torch to her sides.”[154]
[Illustration: The Martyr Cæcilia.]
A thrill of disgust and horror ran through the assembly, which could not
help sympathizing with the poor blind creature. A murmur of suppressed
indignation broke out from all sides of the hall.
Cæcilia, for the first time, learnt that she was in the midst of a
crowd. A crimson glow of modesty rushed into her brow, her face, and
neck, just before white as marble. The angry judge checked the rising
gush of feeling; and all listened in silence, as she spoke again, with
warmer earnestness than before:
“O my dear Lord and Spouse! I have been ever true and faithful to Thee!
Let me suffer pain and torture for Thee; but spare me confusion from
human eyes. Let me come to Thee at once; not covering my face with my
hands in shame when I stand before Thee.”
Another muttering of compassion was heard.
“Catulus!” shouted the baffled judge in fury; “do your duty, sirrah!
what are you about, fumbling all day with that torch?”
The executioner advanced, and stretched forth his hand to her robe, to
withdraw it for the torture; but he drew back, and, turning to the
prefect, exclaimed in softened accents:
“It is too late. She is dead!”
“Dead!” cried out Tertullus; “dead with one turn of the wheel?
impossible!”
Catulus gave the rack a turn backwards, and the body remained
motionless. It was true; she had passed from the rack to the throne,
from the scowl of the judge’s countenance to her Spouse’s welcoming
embrace. Had she breathed out her pure soul, as a sweet perfume, in the
incense of her prayer? or had her heart been unable to get back its
blood, from the intensity of that first virginal blush?[155]
In the stillness of awe and wonder, a clear bold voice cried out, from
the group near the door: “Impious tyrant, dost thou not see, that a poor
blind Christian hath more power over life and death, than thou or thy
cruel masters?”
“What! a third time in twenty-four hours wilt thou dare to cross my
path? This time thou shalt not escape.”
These were Corvinus’s words, garnished with a furious imprecation, as he
rushed from his father’s side round the enclosure before the tribunal,
towards the group. But as he ran blindly on, he struck against an
officer of herculean build, who, no doubt quite accidentally, was
advancing from it. He reeled, and the soldier caught hold of him,
saying:
“You are not hurt, I hope, Corvinus?”
“No, no; let me go, Quadratus, let me go.”
“Where are you running to in such a hurry? can I help you?” asked his
captor, still holding him fast.
“Let me loose, I say, or he will be gone.”
“Who will be gone?”
“Pancratius,” answered Corvinus, “who just now insulted my father.”
“Pancratius!” said Quadratus, looking round, and seeing that he had got
clear off; “I do not see him.” And he let him go; but it was too late.
The youth was safe at Diogenes’s, in the Suburra.
While this scene was going on, the prefect, mortified, ordered Catulus
to see the body thrown into the Tiber. But another officer, muffled in
his cloak, stepped aside and beckoned to Catulus, who understood the
sign, and stretched out his hand to receive a purse held out to him.
“Out of the Porta Capena, at Lucina’s villa, an hour after sunset,” said
Sebastian.
“It shall be delivered there safe,” said the executioner.
“Of what do you think did that poor girl die?” asked a spectator from
his companion, as they went out.
“Of fright, I fancy,” he replied.
[Illustration: The Woman of Samaria, from a picture in the Cemetery of
St. Domitilla.]
“Of Christian modesty,” interposed a stranger who passed them.