The executioners looked to the magistrate. He nodded, and they obeyed. The bonds were rapidly removed from her hands and feet. “Blanda, sustain her!” commanded Æmilius, and he on one side, with his arm round the sinking, quivering form, and the slave‐woman on the other, supported Perpetua. Her feet dragged and traced a furrow in the sand; they were numbed and powerless through the tension of the cords that had been knotted about the ankles. Æmilius and Blanda drew her towards the altar. “I cannot! I will not sacrifice! I am a Christian. I believe in Christ! I love Christ!” “Perpetua,” said Æmilius in agitated tones, “your happiness and mine depend on compliance. For all I have done for you, if you will not for your own sake—consent to this. Here! I will hold your hand. Nay, it is I who will strew the incense, and make it appear as though it were done by you. Priest! The shell with the grains.” “Spare me! I cannot!” gasped the girl, struggling in his arms. “I cannot be false to my Christ—for all that He has done for me.” “You shall. I must constrain you.” He set his teeth, knitted his brow. All his muscles were set in desperation. He strove to force her hand to the altar. “Shame on thee!” sobbed she. “Thou art more cruel than the torturer, more unjust than the judge.” It was so. Æmilius felt that she was right. They did but insult and rack a frail body, and he did violence to the soul within. The people hooted and roared, and brandished their arms threateningly. “We will not be balked! We are being treated to child’s play.” “Take her back to the rack. Apply the fire,” ordered the Quatuorvir. The executioners reclaimed her. She offered no resistance. Æmilius staggered to the _podium_ and grasped the marble top with one hand. She was again suspended on the little horse. Again the windlass creaked. The crowd listened, held its breath, men looked in each other’s eyes, then back to the scene of suffering. Not a sound; not a cry; no, not even a sigh. She bore all. “Try fire!” ordered the magistrate. Æmilius had covered his face. He trembled. He would have shut his ears as he did his eyes, could he have done so. Verily, the agony of his soul was as great as the torture of her body. But there was naught to be heard—an ominous stillness, only the groaning of the windlass, and now and then a word from one executioner to his fellow. At every creak of the wheel a quiver went through the frame of Æmilius. He listened with anguish of mind for a cry. The populace held its breath; it waited. There was none. Into her face he dared not look. But the twenty thousand spectators stared—and saw naught save lips moving in prayer. And now a mighty wonder occurred.