The Martyr of the Catacombs - James De Mille (learn to read activity book TXT) 📗

is not allowed, but an exchange is lawful."

"Yes."

"If I could tell you of a prisoner far more important than this boy, you would exchange, would you not?"

"But you have taken none of us prisoners?"

"No, but we have power over our own people. And there are some among us on whose heads the emperor has placed a large reward. For the capture of these a hundred lads like this boy would be gladly given."

"Is it then a custom among Christians to betray one another?" asked Lucullus in surprise.

"No, but sometimes one Christian will offer his own life to save that of another."

"Impossible!"

"It is so in this instance."

"Who is it that is offered for this boy?"

"I Marcellus!"

At this astounding declaration Lucullus started back.

"You!" he cried.

"Yes, I myself."

"You are jesting. It is impossible."

"I am serious. It is for this that I have already exposed my life in coming to you. I have shown the interest that I take in him by this great risk. I will explain.

"This boy Pollio is the last of an ancient and noble Roman family. He is the only son of his mother. His father died in battle. He belongs to the Servilii."

"The Servilii! Is his mother the Lady Caecilia?"

"Yes. She is a refugee in the Catacombs. Her whole life and love is wrapped up in this boy. Every day she lets him go up into the city, a dangerous adventure, and in his absence she suffers indescribable agony. Yet she is afraid to keep him there always for fear that the damp air which is so fatal to children may cut him off. So she exposes him to what she thinks is a smaller danger.

"This boy you have a prisoner. That mother has heard of it, and now lies hovering between life and death. If you destroy him she too will die, and one of the noblest and purest spirits in Rome will be no more.

"For these reasons I come to offer myself in exchange. What am I? I am alone in the world. No life is wrapped up in mine. No one depends on me for the present and the future. I fear not death. It may as well come now as at any other time. It must come sooner or later, and I would rather give my life as a ransom for a friend than lay it down uselessly.

"For these reasons, Lucullus, I implore you, by the sacred ties of friendship, by your pity, by your promise to me, give me your assistance now and take my life in exchange for him."

Lucullus rose to his feet and paced the room in great agitation.

"Why, O Marcellus," he cried at last, "do you try me so terribly?"

"My proposal is easy to receive."

"You forget that your life is precious to me."

"But think of this young lad."

"I pity him deeply. But do you think I can receive your life as a forfeit?"

"It is forfeited already, and will be surrendered sooner or later. I pray you let it be yielded up while it may be of service."

"You shall not die as long as I can prevent it. Your life is not yet forfeited. By the immortal gods, it will be long before you take your place in the arena."

"No one can save me when once I am taken. You might try your utmost. What could you do to save one on whom the emperor's wrath is falling?"

"I might do much to avert it. You do not know what might be done. But even if I could do nothing, still I would not listen to this proposal now."

"If I went to the emperor himself he would grant my prayer."

"He would take you prisoner at once and put both of you to death."

"I could send a messenger with my proposal."

"The message would never reach him; or at least not until it would be too late."

"There is then no hope?" said Marcellus mournfully.

"None."

"And you absolutely refuse to grant my request?"

"Alas, Marcellus, how can I be guilty of the death of my friend? You have no mercy on me. Forgive me if I refuse so unreasonable a proposal."

"The will of the Lord be done," said Marcellus. "I must hasten back. Alas! how can I carry with me this message of despair?"

The two friends embraced in silence, and Marcellus departed, leaving Lucullus overcome with amazement at this proposal.

Marcellus returned to the Catacombs in safety. The brethren there who knew of his errand received him again with mournful joy. The lady Caecilia still lay in a kind of stupor, only half conscious of surrounding events. At times her mind would wander, and in her delirium she would talk of happy scenes in her early life.

But the life which she had led in the Catacombs, the alternating hope and fear, joy and sorrow, the ever present anxiety, and the oppressive air of the place itself, had overcome both mind and body. Her delicate nature sank beneath the fury of such an ordeal, and this last heavy blow completed her prostration. She could not rally from its effects.

That night they watched around her couch. Every hour she grew feebler, and life was slowly but surely passing away. From that descent unto death not even the restoration of her son could have saved her.

But though earthly thoughts had left her and earthly feelings had grown faint, the one master passion of her later years held undiminished power over her. Her lips murmured still the sacred words which had so long been her support and consolation. The name of her darling boy was breathed from her lips though his present danger was forgotten; but it was the blessed name of Jesus that was uttered with the deepest fervor.

At length the end came. Starting from a long period of stillness, her eyes opened wide, a flush passed over her wan and emaciated face and she uttered a faint cry, "Come, Lord Jesus!" With the cry life went out, and the pure spirit of the lady Caecilia had returned unto God who gave it.

CHAPTER XII.

POLLIO'S TRIAL.

"Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings thou hast ordained praise."

It was a large room in a building not far from the imperial palace. The pavement was of polished marble, and columns of porphyry supported a paneled dome. An altar with a statue of a heathen deity was at one end of the apartment. Magistrates in their robes occupied raised seats on the opposite end. In front of them were some soldiers guarding a prisoner.

The prisoner was the boy Pollio. His face was pale, but his bearing was erect and firm. The remarkable intelligence which had always characterized him did not fail him now. His quick eye took in everything. He knew the inevitable doom that impended over him. Yet there was no trace of fear or indecision about him.

He knew that the only tie that bound him to earth had been severed. Early that morning the news of his mother's death had reached him. It had been carried to him by a man who thought that the knowledge of this would fortify his resolution. That man was Marcellus. The kindness of Lucullus had gained him an interview. His judgment had been correct. While his mother lived, the thought of her would have weakened his resolution; now that she was dead, he was eager to depart also. In his simple faith he believed that death would unite him at once to the dear mother whom he loved so fondly.

With these feelings he awaited the examination.

"Who are you?"

"Marcus Servilius Pollio."

"What is your age?"

"Thirteen years."

At the mention of his name a murmur of compassion went round the assemblage, for that name was well known in Rome.

"You are charged with the crime of being a Christian. What have you to say?"

"I am guilty of no crime," said the boy. "I am a Christian, and I am glad to be able to confess it before men."

"It is the same with them all," said one of the judges. "They all have the same formula."

"Do you know the nature of your crime?"

"I am guilty of no crime," said Pollio. "My religion teaches me to fear God and honor the emperor. I have obeyed every just law, and am not a traitor."

"To be a Christian is to be a traitor."

"I am a Christian, but I am not a traitor."

"The law of the state forbids you to be a Christian under pain of death. If you are a Christian you must die."

"I am a Christian," repeated Pollio firmly.

"Then you must die."

"Be it so."

"Boy, do you know what it is to suffer death?"

"I have seen much of death during the last few months. I have always expected to lay down my life for my religion when my turn should come."

"Boy, you are young. We pity your tender age and inexperience. You have been trained so peculiarly that you are scarcely responsible for your present folly. For all this we are willing to make allowance. This religion which infatuates you is foolishness. You believe that a poor Jew, who was executed a few hundred years ago, is a God. Can anything be more absurd than this! Our religion is the religion of the state. It has enough in itself to satisfy the minds of young and old, ignorant and learned. Leave your foolish superstition and turn to our wiser and older religion."

"I cannot."

"You are the last of a noble family. The state recognizes the worth and the nobility of the Servilii. Your ancestors lived in pomp and wealth and power. You are a poor miserable boy and a prisoner. Be wise, Pollio. Think of the glory of your forefathers and throw aside the miserable obstacle that keeps you away from all their illustrious fame."

"I cannot."

"You have lived a miserable outcast. The poorest beggar in Rome fares better than you. His food is obtained with less labor and less humiliation. His shelter is in the light of day. Above all he is safe. His life is his own. He need not live in hourly fear of justice. But you have had to drag out a wretched existence in want and danger and darkness. What has your boasted religion given you? What has this deified Jew done for you? Nothing, worse than nothing. Turn, then, from this deceiver. Wealth and comfort and friends and the honors of the state and the favor of the emperor will all be yours."

"I cannot."

"Your father was a loyal subject and a brave soldier. He died in battle for his country. He left you an infant, the heir of all his honors, and the last prop of his house. Little did he think of the treacherous influences that surrounded you to lead you astray. Your mother's mind, weakened by sorrow, surrendered to the insidious wiles of false teachers, and she again ignorantly wrought your ruin. Had your noble father lived you would now have been the hope of his ancient line; your mother, too, would have followed the faith of her illustrious ancestors. Do you value your father's memory? Has he no claims on your filial duty? Do you think it no sin to heap dishonor on the proud name that you bear and throw so foul a blot upon the unsullied fame handed down to you from your fathers? Away with this delusion that blinds you. By your father's memory, by the honor of your family, turn from your present course."

"I can do them no dishonor. My religion is pure and holy. I can die, but I cannot be false to my Saviour."

"You see that we are merciful to you. Your name and your inexperience excites our pity. Were you but a common prisoner we would offer you in short words the choice between retraction or death. But we are willing to reason with you, for we do not wish to see a noble family become extinct through the ignorance or obstinacy of a degenerate heir."

"I thank you for your consideration," said Pollio; "but your arguments have no weight with me beside