“Become my wife,” said the Præfect, in a low but distinct voice, “and I will not slay these Christians.” She started from her knees with aversion and loathing on her countenance. “Remember, Lucia Claudia, that the alternative is death. Even the friendship between me and your brother cannot save you from the penalty you have incurred. Young, beautiful, rich, noble, and beloved as you are, can you prefer death to espousing a man who adores you?” “I can die,” she replied—“it is not difficult for a Roman to die; but these Christians, whom I have been the means of betraying, must they die too?” “My daughter,” rejoined the venerable Linus, advancing towards her with dignity, “plead not for us; we are ready not only to be bound, but to die for the Lord Jesus.” “Father, I have brought these wolves upon you,” cried Lucia, wringing her hands; “it is I who have unwittingly betrayed my brethren;” and again she renewed her supplications to the Præfect on her knees. “I have named the conditions,” was all the reply he deigned to return to her entreaties. Lucia hesitated; the Bishop marked the struggle of her soul. “God can defend his own Church; yea, if it be His will, He also can deliver it out of this impending danger. Daughter, ‘be not unequally yoked with an unbeliever.’ We are all baptized into one faith, let us glorify God by dying together.” “In flames, in tortures!” exclaimed Nymphidius, elevating his voice till the vaulted roof re-echoed with its terrific tones. “I tell ye that the horrors of Nero’s first persecution of this vile sect shall be forgotten in the tremendous vengeance of his second.[12] Maiden, do you remember the illumination of the imperial gardens?” continued he, bending down to the suppliant, who still grasped his knees. He felt the shudder that thrilled through her frame at the ghastly recollections he had called up. “We must abide it as best we may,” murmured she. “My own sufferings I can endure with constancy, but how shall I see those my rashness has brought down on these?” “I swear to thee, most fair and noble lady, that not a hair of their heads shall perish for this cause. Yes, Lucia Claudia, by thyself I swear not only to preserve, but to protect them. Nay more, thou shalt be free to follow this strange superstition, wild and mischievous though it be, so that you promise to become my wife.” “I promise,” she faintly uttered, and sank in a swoon at his feet, a swoon so death-like, that when the Præfect raised her up, he feared that he held only an inanimate corpse in his arms.