DIONYSIUS.
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| ΔΙΟΝΥCΙΟΥ |
| ΙΑΤΡΟΥ |
|ΠΡΕCΒΥΤΕΡΟΥ |
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The great thoughts, which this occurrence would naturally have suggested
to the noble heart of Fabiola, were suppressed, for a time, by the
exigencies of the moment. Her first care was to stanch the flowing blood
with whatever was nearest at hand. While she was engaged in this work,
there was a general rush of servants towards her apartment. The stupid
porter had begun to be uneasy at Fulvius’s long stay (the reader has now
heard his real name), when he saw him dash out of the door like a
maniac, and thought he perceived stains of blood upon his garment. He
immediately gave the alarm to the entire household.
Fabiola by a gesture stopped the crowd at the door of her room, and
desired only Euphrosyne and her Greek maid to enter. The latter, since
the influence of the black slave had been removed, had attached herself
most affectionately to Syra, as we must still call her, and had, with
great docility, listened to her moral instructions. A slave was
instantly despatched for the physician who had always been sent for by
Syra in illness, Dionysius, who, as we have already observed, lived in
the house of Agnes.
In the meantime Fabiola had been overjoyed at finding the blood cease to
flow so rapidly, and still more at seeing her servant open her eyes upon
her, though only for a moment. She would not have exchanged for any
wealth the sweet smile which accompanied that look.
[Illustration: Cemetery of Callistus.]
In a few minutes the kind physician arrived. He carefully examined the
wound, and pronounced favorably on it for the present. The blow, as
aimed, would have gone straight to Fabiola’s heart. But her loving
servant, in spite of prohibition, had been hovering near her mistress
during the whole day; never intruding, but anxious for any opportunity
which might offer, of seconding those good impressions of grace, which
the morning’s scenes could not fail to have produced. While in a
neighboring room she heard violent tones which were too familiar to her
ears; and hastened noiselessly round, and within the curtain which
covered the door of Fabiola’s own apartment. She stood concealed in the
dusk, on the very spot where Agnes had, a few months before, consoled
her.
She had not been there long when the last struggle commenced. While the
man was pushing her mistress backwards, she followed him close behind;
and as he was lifting his arm, passed him, and threw her body over that
of his victim. The blow descended, but misdirected, through the shock
she gave his arm; and it fell upon her neck, where it inflicted a deep
wound, checked, however, by encountering the collar-bone. We need not
say what it cost her to make this sacrifice. Not the dread of pain, nor
the fear of death could for a moment have deterred her; it was the
horror of imprinting on her brother’s brow the mark of Cain, the making
him doubly a fratricide, which deeply anguished her. But she had offered
her life for her mistress. To have fought with the assassin, whose
strength and agility she knew, would have been useless; to try to alarm
the house before one fatal blow was struck was hopeless; and nothing
remained but to accomplish her immolation, by substituting herself for
the intended victim. Still she wished to spare her brother the
consummation of his crime, and in doing so manifested to Fabiola their
relationship and their real names.
In his blind fury he refused her credit; but the words, in their native
tongue, which said, “Remember my scarf which you picked up here,”
brought back to his memory so terrible a domestic tale, that had the
earth opened a cavern in that moment before his feet, he would have
leaped into it, to bury his remorse and shame.
Strange, too, it proved, that he should not have ever allowed Eurotas to
get possession of that family relic, but should, ever since he regained
it, have kept it apart as a sacred thing; and when all else was being
packed up, should have folded it up and put it in his breast. And now,
in the act of drawing out his eastern dagger, he had plucked this out
too, and both were found upon the floor.
Dionysius, immediately after dressing the wound, and administering
proper restoratives, which brought back consciousness, desired the
patient to be left perfectly quiet, to see as few persons as possible,
so as to prevent excitement, and to go on with the treatment which he
prescribed until midnight. “I will call,” he added, “very early in the
morning, when I must see my patient alone.” He whispered a few words in
her ear, which seemed to do her more good than all his medicines; for
her countenance brightened into an angelic smile.
Fabiola had her placed in her own bed, and, allotting to her attendants
the outward room, reserved to herself exclusively the privilege, as she
deemed it, of nursing the servant, to whom a few months before she could
hardly feel grateful for having tended her in fever. She had informed
the others how the wound had been inflicted, concealing the relationship
between her assailant and her deliverer.
Although herself exhausted and feverish, she would not leave the bedside
of the patient; and when midnight was past, and no more remedies had to
be administered, she sank to rest upon a low couch close to the bed. And
now what were her thoughts, when, in the dim light of a sick room, she
opened her mind and heart to them? They were simple and earnest. She saw
at once the reality and truth of all that her servant had ever spoken to
her. When she last conversed with her, the principles which she heard
with delight, had appeared to her wholly beyond practice, beautiful
theories, which could not be brought to action. When Miriam had
described a sphere of virtue, wherein no approbation or reward of man
was to be expected, but only the approving eye of God, she had admired
the idea, which powerfully seized her generous mind; but she had
rebelled against its becoming the constraining rule of hourly conduct.
Yet, if the stroke under which she cast herself had proved fatal, as it
might easily have done, where would have been her reward? What, then,
could have been her motive but that very theory, as it seemed, of
responsibility to an unseen power?
And when Miriam had discoursed of heroism in virtue as being its
ordinary standard, how chimerical the principle had seemed! Yet here,
without preparation, without forethought, without excitement, without
glory,--nay, with marked desire of concealment, this slave had performed
a deed of self-sacrifice, heroic in every way. From what could that
result but from habitual heroism of virtue, ready at any hour to do what
would ennoble forever a soldier’s name? She was no dreamer, then, no
theorist, but a serious, real practiser of all that she taught. Could
this be a philosophy? Oh, no, it must be a religion! the religion of
Agnes and of Sebastian, to whom she considered Miriam every way equal.
How she longed to converse with her again!
Early in the morning, according to his promise, the physician returned,
and found his patient much improved. He desired to be left alone with
her; when, having spread a linen cloth upon the table, and placed
lighted tapers upon it, he drew from his bosom an embroidered scarf, and
uncovered a golden box, the sacred contents of which she well knew.
Approaching her he said:
“My dear child, as I promised you, I have now brought you not merely the
truest remedy of every ailment, bodily and spiritual, but the very
Physician Himself, who by His word alone restoreth all things,[215]
whose touch opens the eyes of the blind and the ears of the deaf, whose
will cleanses lepers, the hem of whose garment sends forth virtue to
cure all. Are you ready to receive Him?”
“With all my heart,” she replied, clasping her hands; “I long to possess
Him whom alone I have loved, in whom I have believed, to whom my heart
belongs.”
“Does no anger or indignation exist in your soul against him who has
injured you? does any pride or vanity arise in your mind at the thought
of what you have done? or are you conscious of any other fault requiring
humble confession and absolution before receiving the sacred gift into
your breast?”
“Full of imperfection and sin I know myself to be, venerable father; but
I am not conscious of any knowing offence. I have had no need to forgive
him to whom you allude; I love him too much for that, and would
willingly give my life to save him. And of what have I to be proud, a
poor servant, who have only obeyed my Lord’s commands?”
“Invite then, my child, this Lord into your house, that coming He may
heal you, and fill you with His grace.”
Approaching the table, he took from it a particle of the Blessed
Eucharist, in the form of unleavened bread, which, being dry, he
moistened in water, and placed within her lips.[216] She closed them
upon it, and remained for some time absorbed in contemplation.
And thus did the holy Dionysius discharge his twofold office of
physician and priest, attributed to him on his tomb.