ake neither food nor drink; let my death fall on thee and
thy brethren. Why hast thou nursed me? Why hast thou not commanded to
kill me?" He grew pale from weakness and anger.

Lygia, who had heard all from the other room and who was certain that
Vinicius would do what he promised, was terrified. She would not
have him die for anything. Wounded and defenceless, he roused in her
compassion, not fear. Living from the time of her flight among people in
continual religious enthusiasm, thinking only of sacrifices, offerings,
and boundless charity, she had grown so excited herself through that
new inspiration, that for her it took the place of house, family, lost
happiness, and made her one of those Christian maidens who, later on,
changed the former soul of the world. Vinicius had been too important
in her fate, had been thrust too much on her, to let her forget him. She
had thought of him whole days, and more than once had begged God for the
moment in which, following the inspiration of religion, she might return
good for his evil, mercy for his persecution, break him, win him to
Christ, save him. And now it seemed to her that precisely that moment
had come, and that her prayers had been heard.

She approached Crispus therefore with a face as if inspired, and
addressed him as though some other voice spoke through her,--"Let him
stay among us, Crispus, and we will stay with him till Christ gives him
health."

The old presbyter, accustomed to seek in all things the inspiration of
God, beholding her exaltation, thought at once that perhaps a higher
power was speaking through her, and, fearing in his heart, he bent his
gray head, saying,--"Let it be as thou sayest."

On Vinicius, who the whole time had not taken his eyes from her,
this ready obedience of Crispus produced a wonderful and pervading
impression. It seemed to him that among the Christians Lygia was a kind
of sibyl or priestess whom they surrounded with obedience and honor;
and he yielded himself also to that honor. To the love which he felt
was joined now a certain awe, in presence of which love itself became
something almost insolent. He could not familiarize himself, however,
with the thought that their relations had changed: that now not she was
dependent on his will, but he on hers; that he was lying there sick and
broken; that he had ceased to be an attacking, a conquering force;
that he was like a defenceless child in her care. For his proud and
commanding