“I cannot, I cannot,” sobbed Euterpe falling on her knees. “Why must I die--and I am so young, and this world is a very pleasant one! Mercy, for Christ’s sake have mercy! No, no, I am not a Christian. I am innocent, indeed I am. I was misled--go and tell Caesar, tell the cruel judges. I cannot die, I will repent before the altar of Jupiter--only let me live, and my good honest Diphilus.” “Miserable, weak creature!” said Flavius Clemens, going up to the distracted woman and stroking her hair with a pitiful smile. “God will forgive you for what you have said in your terror of death. It does not come from your heart, and God is love.” Then turning to the man he said: “Is it not possible to give her a little longer time? If we came first--I and my wife?” “Impossible,” said the man. Meanwhile Diphilus had infused some little courage into the trembling Euterpe. She got up, but her knees gave way. He took her up, more dead than alive, and bursting into tears, clasped her in his arms. The warden signed to his comrades; without saying a word they snatched her from him. One of them, a red-haired Sicambrian, lifted up the slender form of the weeping woman, as if she were a mere plaything, and carried her up the steps. The other two followed with Diphilus, who held himself bravely, and waved a farewell to those who remained behind. The door fell to with a crash, and no sooner had the footsteps died away, than they heard the signal drum. Most of the prisoners fell on their knees at the horrible sound and raised their hands in passionate supplication. Flavius Clemens, Quintus and Cornelia remained standing. There was a breathless silence; lips moved but spoke not, only a suppressed sob now and then broke the deathly stillness. Suddenly a convulsive shudder thrilled the worshippers, the dull roar of a lion was heard; involuntarily every eye was more fervently raised and hands were clasped more tightly. Then there was a fearful shriek, shrill, despairing, piercing--and then again the wild applause, the clapping, shouting and laughter. “That was Euterpe,” whispered Quintus, pressing his face against the wall. Nearly two hours went by, before the vault was opened again. The interval was occupied by a series of combats on horseback in grand classical style; and when the man next appeared he hailed twelve of the Christians at once. It was strange, but the victims were now all calm and composed. The men and women, who at the first appearance of the messenger of death had flinched and quailed, now only betrayed by their shortened breathing, that the door that stood open before them led to death, and not to liberty. “The Lord give you strength!” cried Flavius Clemens as the door closed upon them, and the remaining handful looked at each other with a sad and wistful smile. Their number was greatly diminished; at every moment the end drew nearer--nearer and more certain.