festering corpse. To this the apostle refers when, groaning over the
corruptions of his sinful nature, he exclaims: "O wretched man that I
am, who shall deliver me from the body of this death?"

"My dainty lady," said the hideous Cyclops, as he rudely seized the arm
of Callirho[e:], "this is not the sort of bracelet you've been used to
wear. I should not much mind, being bound to such as you myself, only I
would prefer silken fetters to those iron gyves." Then, as she shrank
from his touch and winced as he bruised her tender flesh in unriveting
the fetters, he said, with an insolent jeer, "I wont hurt you more than
I can help, my beauty. You are not used to having such a rough
chamberlain;" and he uttered a coarse jest with which we shall not
pollute our page.

A rosy flush stormed the brow of the maiden as she turned her blushing
cheek to the mildewed and cold stone wall, in haughty silence disdaining
a word of reply to the brutal ruffian.

"Nay, my fine gentlemen," went on this typical Roman jailer, as Adauctus
and the aged Demetrius, weary with their march, sank upon a stone bench,
"this is too luxurious an apartment for you. For you we have a deeper
depth." And Be pointed to an opening in the floor, hitherto unnoticed in
the gloom. "Nay, you need not shrink, old man," he went on, as Demetrius
recoiled from the grave-like opening at his feet. "Your betters have
been there before you."

"Father, your blessing e'er you go," exclaimed Callirho[e:], and flinging
herself on his breast, she received his kiss and benediction.

By means of a leathern strap beneath their arms, the prisoners were one
by one let down into a hideous vault, like men to a living burial. Into
this lower dungeon no beam of light struggled, save a precarious ray
from the opening in the floor above. The loathsome cell was even then
dank with the slime of well-nigh a thousand years, its construction
being attributed to Ancus Martius, the fourth king of Rome. Here the
African prince, Jugurtha, was starved to death. "What a cold bath is
this!" he exclaimed, as he descended into its chilly gloom. Here the
Gallic king, Vercingetorix, also died. Here the usurper Sejanus was
executed, and here the fellow conspirators of Cataline lingered to
death. If we would accept Roman tradition, we would also believe that
St. Peter and St. Paul were immured in this dismal vault, and in the
case of the latter illustrious martyr it is more than likely that the
story