IN THE ARENA.
Pathema was taken from prison, where she had been shut up for a long
time; and the officer in charge was about to open a small door into the
arena to lead her in, when a dark-haired boy, the son of illustrious
parents, came forward with tears streaming down his noble face, and
presented her with a cluster of white lilies. Accepting the flowers
speechlessly but gracefully, the doomed maiden bent down with a full
heart and kissed him. The lilies reminded her of Him who was made
perfect through suffering, and they gave her renewed strength.
"Thy name, my darling?"
"Carnion," was the answer, broken and low.
Stooping down, Pathema put a gentle trembling arm around the boy and
kissing him again, she said--
"My lovely one, God bless thee!"
The guard in uniform opened the door and led the innocent victim into
the great arena.
"The maiden comes: see, yonder," said Coryna, looking intently towards
her.
Myrtis spoke not, but strained her eyes to see.
The Christian maiden approached slowly in charge of the guard till she
was placed in front of the pavilion where sat the emperor, clothed in a
purple robe and on his head a laurel crown. Leaving her there, the
guard withdrew without delay that the keeper might unbar a heavy iron
gate for the wild beast to enter in and devour.
Pathema stood alone, a graceful form in flowing garments, within those
spacious walls. Clothed in mockery in the white robe of a vestal
virgin, yet she was a chaste virgin of Jesus Christ. Bound with a
white fillet, her rich black hair, of lavish length, lay back in
glistening waves. Her soft dark eyes were modestly towards the ground;
once only were they raised, and then to a purer region than earth. Her
face was pale and worn but eminently beautiful, with the light of
heaven on her thoughtful brow. All around, thousands upon thousands of
human eyes, gazing with inhumane curiosity, were an abashing and
disturbing sight themselves. But with the solitary object of their
gaze, the flow of mental energy was smoothly but strongly and
consumingly in the channel of the spiritual emotions. The hidden
struggle with conflicting streams of feeling was all gone through in
the bitterness and supplications of the dungeon. The agony was past,
and Pathema was resigned.
"That sad sweet countenance entrances me," said Myrtis, deeply moved.
"Oh Coryna, I go, and yet I cannot! Whence that light and peace?"
Coryna replied not, for she could not. But from among the _pullati_ or
poor people, immediately below, an answer of a kind came. It was in
the subdued voice of a shepherd from the mountains of Lycia. Orestes
had nimbly escaped while Pathema was being removed from the prison not
long before; but at the risk of recapture he had entered the
amphitheatre, determined, like Peter, to see the end, not out of
curiosity but of Christian love, hoping against hope. He sat at the
end of a seat near one of the _vomitoria_ or doors of entrance from the
internal lobbies in the shell of the building. Although his garb was
soiled and worn, his face was thoughtful, humane and resolute, like the
rugged rocks of Taurus. His remarks were not intended for other ears,
but were the half-audible, broken sentences of an intense mind.
"Listen!" said Coryna, recovering herself, "he speaks in our own
tongue; and they heard such expressions as--
"The peace of God, which passeth all understanding.
Enduring--enduring! Life is but a fleeting breath at best.
Corrupt--corrupt! Is not this foul spectacle around her the proof?
She would not live for a human name--worthless from the low-viewed
multitude--nor for pleasure, nor for mere living, at the price of
loyalty to Christ. Yet she would live--live that she might humbly aid
these people to rise up from the pit of the sensual savage mind--into
the light, the glorious light. But she is rejected and despised. Like
her Master, she must be sacrificed--in cruelty and shame. If it be
possible, let this cup pass from her, I beseech Thee, O God!"
Pathema knew not that in the vast multitude above there was one--her
fellow-countryman and co-worker, the humble shepherd of mount
Taurus--pleading for her life with all the intensity of agonising pity.
To her, mercy was a stranger within those living walls, yet with meekly
bended head in steadfast trust she stood, bearing her awful cross in
the footprints of the Nazarene.