There was another couple of senatorial rank there besides Quintus and Cornelia: the consul, Flavius Clemens,[156] a man of blameless character and the highest merit, and with him his noble wife. Both in calm and silent resignation had joined a group, that had gathered round a girl of eight, who had sunk into a decline in consequence of her long imprisonment. Her father, an artisan from the Subura, had carried the poor child in his arms from one prison to the other. She was now half sitting and leaning against the wall, looking round her with large, ghastly-bright eyes, while her father held her hands and listened to her words as though they were a revelation from Heaven. “Do not cry, father dear,” she said coaxingly. “That good angel, that has so often come to me, will not have your Cynthia torn by lions. He is coming to fetch me away. There--there--where the wall is open and you see the blue sky through--he is there in the sunshine.” A faint smile fleeted across the wasted face, transient and melancholy as the last rosy hue of an autumn sunset. She closed her eyes, but opened them again at once in rapt ecstasy. “Good-night, father,” she said with a sigh. “I am going first, up into that bright and glorious heaven. When the time comes, and your heart is breaking with terror and pain, remember me, father, and do not forget that I shall be praying to God to give you strength and courage to the last. Oh father, I thank you too for having loved me so much, and for having taught me to know the Saviour, and taken care of me in all your trouble. And I thank you too, dear good friends, and I will pray to God for you all as well. What a glorious sight! I can see far, far away into the gates of light. Yes, Angel of Hope, I am ready to follow you. Kiss me, father, once more, for He has got my hand--He is flying, dragging me up--up....” her arms fell into her lap, and she sighed deeply. Then she lay still, as if she had gone to sleep. “Cynthia, my child!” cried the father, and with a loud sob he pressed the cold, slender hands to his furrowed face. “She is dead!” he said. “God’s mercy has spared her the worst.” The by-standers, who had so victoriously lived down their own sufferings, stood deeply moved at the sight of the gentle, innocent creature, that had been held captive like a criminal, and almost literally tortured to death. “It is well with her!” said Flavius Clemens, clasping his weeping wife in his arms. Calmer than all else, as it appeared, was the half-whispered dialogue between Quintus and Cornelia. Each was endeavoring to utter what was bursting their hearts, but in as indifferent a tone and with as little gesture as possible, so as not to attract the attention of their fellow-prisoners. “Listen, Cornelia,” whispered Quintus, hardly daring to open his lips. “You are here solely in the hope of urging me to recant. It is not true, that you are really condemned to death?” Cornelia looked him in the lace with a bitter smile.