So they opened the door—and Cecilia, radiant and fresh as a rose washed in dew, knelt there in prayer, her lovely face raised to Heaven, her pure hands clasped in love and thanksgiving. Terrified, the men rushed to tell Almachius of the portent. “Let a Lictor go and behead her!” was all he said. Some man was found to do it—though unwillingly, since even the most brutal and ignorant felt that here was one mysteriously protected by Heaven—and might not Heaven—even the Heaven of Jupiter and Apollo—smite him who should raise his hand against her? Still, orders were orders. In the soft May morning a heavy tread sounded over the mosaic pavements of the palace. The sweet lady’s friends and dependents cried out as they saw a man stride along towards the “calidarium”—where, in obedience to the Prefect’s commands, she had remained—swinging a heavy two-handled axe. The Christians who were the trophies of her conquests for Christ besought her, between their sobs, to pray for them in Heaven. She bade them be comforted—smiling radiantly and mysteriously—and knelt down on the still wet marble to receive the blow. But the Lictor’s hands were trembling so that he could scarcely grasp his weapon. Three times he struck, and each time the steel sank deep into the meek white neck, and the blood crimsoned the golden robe and the marble floor. Then he fled in terror. The Roman law forbade a fourth stroke. Cecilia was lying on the reddened marble, on her side, Urban and the rest kneeling around her. And it was she who broke the silence, bidding them pray to God and then listen to her, since she still had somewhat to say to them. Some among them were yet in need of instruction, many in need of comfort and encouragement; so she taught and prayed, and comforted them for three long days, never moving from the spot where she had sunk down under the strokes of the axe; and they were left in peace, since cold fear had fallen on the city and none dared approach Cecilia’s house to ask how it fared with her. During all this time her face showed that she was suffering the agonies of death, though she found her old sweet smile for each and all of her spiritual children and her beloved poor, as they crowded round her to kiss her garments and try to staunch her wounds, and to dip their linen cloths in the treasure of her blood. Her last endearments were for the poor, and whatever remained of her own properties in the house she now commanded to be given to them. Each word she spoke seemed as if it must be the last, yet still she lived—and smiled, and blessed them.