“A Christian,” answered Cæcilia, with her usual cheerful gentleness. [Illustration: The Cure of the Man born Blind, from a picture in the Catacombs.] “Bring her along,” he commanded; “some one at least shall pay for our disappointment.” CHAPTER XVII. THE FIRST FLOWER. Cæcilia, already forewarned, had approached the cemetery by a different, but neighboring entrance. No sooner had she descended than she snuffed the strong odor of the torches. “This is none of _our_ incense, I know,” she said to herself; “the enemy is already within.” She hastened therefore to the place of assembly and delivered Sebastian’s note; adding also what she had observed. It warned them to disperse and seek the shelter of the inner and lower galleries; and begged of the Pontiff not to leave till he should send for him, as his person was particularly sought for. Pancratius urged the blind messenger to save herself too. “No,” she replied, “my office is to watch the door, and guide the faithful safe.” “But the enemy may seize you.” “No matter,” she answered, laughing; “my being taken may save much worthier lives. Give me a lamp, Pancratius.” “Why, you cannot see by it,” observed he, smiling. “True, but others can.” “They may be your enemies.” “Even so,” she answered, “I do not wish to be taken in the dark. If my Bridegroom come to me in the night of this cemetery, must He not find me with my lamp trimmed?” Off she started, reached her post, and hearing no noise except that of quiet footsteps, she thought they were those of friends, and held up her lamp to guide them. When the party came forth, with their only captive, Fulvius was perfectly furious. It was worse than a total failure: it was ridiculous--a poor mouse come out of the bowels of the earth. He rallied Corvinus till the wretch winced and foamed; then suddenly he asked, “And where is Torquatus?” He heard the account of his sudden disappearance, told in as many ways as the Dacian guard’s adventure: but it annoyed him greatly. He had no doubt whatever, in his own mind, that he had been duped by his supposed victim, who had escaped into the unsearchable mazes of the cemetery. If so, this captive would know, and he determined to question her. He stood before her, therefore, put on his most searching and awful look, and said to her sternly, “Look at me, woman, and tell me the truth.” “I must tell you the truth without looking at you, sir,” answered the poor girl, with her cheerfullest smile and softest voice; “do you not see that I am blind?” “Blind!” all exclaimed at once, as they crowded to look at her. But over the features of Fulvius there passed the slightest possible emotion, just as much as the wave that runs, pursued by a playful breeze, over the ripe meadow. A knowledge had flashed into his mind, a clue had fallen into his hand.