“It will be ridiculous,” he said, “for twenty soldiers to march through the city, guarding a blind girl. Return to your quarters, and I will see you are well rewarded. You, Corvinus, take my horse, and go before to your father, and tell him all, I will follow in a carriage with the captive.” “No treachery, Fulvius,” he said, vexed and mortified. “Mind you bring her. The day must not pass without a sacrifice.” “Do not fear,” was the reply. Fulvius, indeed, was pondering whether, having lost one spy, he should not try to make another. But the placid gentleness of the poor beggar perplexed him more than the boisterous zeal of the gamester, and her sightless orbs defied him more than the restless roll of the toper’s. Still, the first thought that had struck him he could yet pursue. When alone in a carriage with her, he assumed a soothing tone, and addressed her. He knew she had not overheard the last dialogue. “My poor girl,” he said, “how long have you been blind?” “All my life,” she replied. “What is your history? Whence do you come?” “I have no history. My parents were poor, and brought me to Rome when I was four years old, as they came to pray, in discharge of a vow made for my life in early sickness, to the blessed martyrs Chrysanthus and Daria. They left me in charge of a pious lame woman, at the door of the title of Fasciola, while they went to their devotions. It was on that memorable day, when many Christians were buried at their tomb, by earth and stones cast down upon them. My parents had the happiness to be of the number.” “And how have you lived since?” “God became my only Father then, and His Catholic Church my mother. The one feeds the birds of the air, the other nurses the weaklings of the flock. I have never wanted for any thing since.” “But you can walk about the streets freely, and without fear, as well as if you saw.” “How do you know that?” “I have seen you. Do you remember very early one morning in the autumn, leading a poor lame man along the Vicus Patricius?” She blushed and remained silent. Could he have seen her put into the poor old man’s purse her own share of the alms? “You have owned yourself a Christian?” he asked negligently. “Oh, yes! how could I deny it?” “Then that meeting was a Christian meeting?” “Certainly; what else could it be?” He wanted no more; his suspicions were verified. Agnes, about whom Torquatus had been able or willing to tell him nothing, was certainly a Christian. His game was made. She must yield, or he would be avenged. After a pause, looking at her steadfastly, he said, “Do you know whither you are going?” “Before the judge of earth, I suppose, who will send me to my Spouse in heaven.” “And so calmly?” he asked in surprise; for he could see no token from the soul to the countenance, but a smile. “So joyfully rather,” was her brief reply.