The dense cloud that filled the heavens began softly, soundlessly, to discharge its burden. First came, scarce noticed, sailing down, a few large white flakes like fleeces of wool. Then they came fast, faster, ever faster. And now it was as though a white bridal veil had been let down out of heaven to hide from the eyes of the ravening multitude the spectacle of the agony of Christ’s martyr. None could see across the arena; soon none could see obscurely into it. The snowflakes fell thick and dense, they massed as a white cornice on the parapet, they dropped on every head, they whitened the bloodstained, trampled sand. And all fled before the snow. First went a few in twos or threes; then whole rows stood up, and through the vomitories the multitude poured—freedmen, slaves, knights, ladies, _flamines_, magistrates; none could stand against the descending snow. “Cast her down!” This was the last command issued by Petronius as he rose from his seat. The executioners were glad to escape. They relaxed the ropes, and threw their victim on the already white ground. Still thick and fast fell the fleeces. Blanda had cast a mantle of wool over the prostrate girl, but out of heaven descended a pall, whiter than fuller on earth can bleach, and buried the woolen cloak and the extended quivering limbs. Beside her, in the snow, knelt Æmilius. He held her hand in one of his. She looked him in the face and smiled. Then she said: “Give to Blanda her liberty.” He could not speak. He signed that it should be so. Then she said: “I have prayed for thee—on the rack, in the fire—that the light may shine into thy heart.” She closed her eyes. Still he held her hand, and with the other gently brushed away the snowflakes as they fell on her pure face. Oh wondrous face! Face above the dream of the highest Greek artist! Thus passed an hour—thus a second. Then suddenly the clouds parted, and the sun poured down a flood of glory over the dazzling white oval field, in the midst of which lay a heap of whiteness, and on a face as of alabaster, inanimate, and on a kneeling, weeping man, still with reverent finger sweeping away the last snowflakes from eyelash, cheek and hair, and who felt as if he could thus look, and kneel, and weep for ever.(12) CHAPTER XXIV CREDO Many days had passed. All was calm in Nemausus. The games were over. The day succeeding that we have described was warm and spring‐like. The sun shone brilliantly. Every trace of the snow had disappeared, and the water‐fight in the amphitheater had surpassed the expectations of the people. They had enjoyed themselves heartily. All had returned to its old order. The wool merchant took fresh commands, and sent his travelers into the Cebennæ to secure the winter fleeces. The woman who had the flower‐shop sold garlands as fast as she could weave them. The potter spread out a fresh collection of his wares and did a good business with them.