The mercenaries pushed forward. The Christians, none of whom were armed except Thrax and Quintus, submitted at once. Thrax alone withdrew farther and farther into the niche; his left arm still held up Glauce, who leaned only half-conscious on his shoulder, and in his right he still clutched the dagger. The soldiers came up with him. “Come, old man, make short work of it!” cried the foremost. “You see there are a score of us.” Close to Thrax and Glauce Euterpe was kneeling by a pillar. In her wild anguish she had thrown her arms round the cold stone, and was murmuring vehement prayers. Now, looking up a moment, a shrill and piercing shriek broke from her lips, and she fell backwards on the earth, where she lay senseless. Instead of answering the soldier, Thrax Barbatus had raised the dagger, and thrust it to the very hilt in Glauce’s side. The two men, even, stood petrified at the sight of such a deed, while Thrax gently laid the slender body on the ground. Tears streamed down his rugged cheeks. Even in death the poor child smiled--shivered.--All was over. “Good-night,” muttered the miserable father. “No executioner will ever harm you now. Come on, accursed crew, and lay me by the side of my sweet Glauce.” He rushed headlong on one of the men, who avoided the stroke, and tried to seize his assailant round the body. But in vain; a mightier blow fell upon his helmet, and stunned him. He staggered backwards. “Old fool!” cried the other soldier. “Fling away that dagger, or by Hercules....” “Thrax, miserable man! For Christ’s sake!” A score of voices appealed to him at once. But Thrax had raised the blade again, and charged the foe like a lion. “Well, he will have it!” said the soldiers, now falling upon him from all sides. The next instant Thrax Barbatus fell, pierced by three swords at once, on the ground by Glauce’s side. Not a groan of pain parted his set lips, not a throe, not a sign, betrayed the pain of such a death; only his hand feebly felt for Glauce's. Quintus gazed down at the dead. “Would I might have died so!” he said to himself. “Almighty God, Thy will be done.” “Now, men--are you ready?” cried the centurion, sheathing his weapon. “As you say.” “Very well, then; away to the city! Give over crying, you women. A crime was never yet atoned for by howling and wailing. Onwards--march!” And the long and melancholy procession set out. None remained behind but the dead--the free and happy dead. FOOTNOTES: