Quo Vadis: A Narrative of the Time of Nero by Henryk Sienkiewicz (nonfiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

now at least of finding Lygia. The young tribune began by examining the first dungeon carefully; he looked into all the dark corners hardly reached by the light of his torch; he examined figures sleeping at the walls under coarse cloths; he saw that the most grievously ill were drawn into a corner apart. But Lygia he found in no place. In a second and third dungeon his search was equally fruitless.

Meanwhile the hour had grown late; all corpses had been carried out. The guards, disposing themselves in the corridors between cellars, were asleep; the children, wearied with crying, were silent; nothing was heard save the breathing of troubled breasts, and here and there the murmur of prayer.

Vinicius went with his torch to the fourth dungeon, which was considerably smaller. Raising the light, he began to examine it, and trembled all at once, for it seemed to him that he saw, near a latticed opening in the wall, the gigantic form of Ursus. Then, blowing out the light, he approached him, and asked,

“Ursus, art thou here?”

“Who art thou?” asked the giant, turning his head.

“Dost not know me?”

“Thou hast quenched the torch; how could I know thee?”

But at that moment Vinicius saw Lygia lying on a cloak near the wall; so, without speaking further, he knelt near her. Ursus recognized him, and said,—

“Praise be to Christ! but do not wake her, lord.”

Vinicius, kneeling down, gazed at her through his tears. In spite of the darkness he could distinguish her face, which seemed to him as pale as alabaster, and her emaciated arms. At that sight he was seized by a love which was like a rending pain, a love which shook his soul to its uttermost depth, and which at the same time was so full of pity, respect, and homage that he fell on his face, and pressed to his lips the hem of the cloak on which rested that head dearer to him than all else on earth.

Ursus looked at Vinicius for a long time in silence, but at last he pulled his tunic.

“Lord,” asked he, “how didst thou come, and hast thou come here to save her?”

Vinicius rose, and struggled for a time with his emotion. “Show me the means,” replied he.

“I thought that thou wouldst find them, lord. Only one method came to my head—”

Here he turned toward the grating in the wall, as if in answer to himself, and said,—

“In that way—but there are soldiers outside—”

“A hundred pretorians.”

“Then we cannot pass?”

“No!”

The Lygian rubbed his forehead, and asked again,—

“How didst thou enter?”

“I have a tessera from the overseer of the ‘Putrid Pits.’” Then Vinicius stopped suddenly, as if some idea had flashed through his head.

“By the Passion of the Redeemer,” said he, in a hurried voice, “I will stay here. Let her take my tessera; she can wrap her head in a cloth, cover her shoulders with a mantle, and pass out. Among the slaves who carry out corpses there are several youths not full grown; hence the pretorians will not notice her, and once at the house of Petronius she is safe.”

But the Lygian dropped his head on his breast, and said,—“She would not consent, for she loves thee; besides, she is sick, and unable to stand alone. If thou and the noble Petronius cannot save her from prison, who can?” said he, after a while.

“Christ alone.”

Then both were silent.

“Christ could save all Christians,” thought the Lygian, in his simple heart; “but since He does not save them, it is clear that the hour of torture and death has come.”

He accepted it for himself, but was grieved to the depth of his soul for that child who had grown up in his arms, and whom he loved beyond life.

Vinicius knelt again near Lygia. 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: Cæsar is here, but there the Redeemer, kind and merciful. And there is no death there. Thou lovest me; think, then, how happy I shall be. Oh, dear Marcus, think that