Читать книгу Fabiola; Or, The Church of the Catacombs онлайн

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“What is that?” both asked.

“To give my life for her conversion. I know that a poor slave like me has few chances of martyrdom. Still, a fiercer persecution is said to be approaching, and perhaps it will not disdain such humble victims. But be that as God pleases, my life for her soul is placed in His hands. And oh, dearest, best of ladies,” she exclaimed, falling on her knees and bedewing Agnes’s hand with tears, “do not come in thus between me and my prize.”

“You have conquered, sister Syra (oh! never again call me lady),” said Agnes. “Remain at your post; such single-hearted, generous virtue must triumph. It is too sublime for so homely a sphere as my household.”

“And I, for my part,” subjoined Cæcilia, with a look of arch gravity, “say that she has said one very wicked thing, and told a great story, this evening.”

“What is that, my pet?” asked Syra, laughing.

“Why, you said that I was wiser and better than you, because I declined eating some trumpery delicacy, which would have gratified my palate for a few minutes, at the expense of an act of greediness; while you have given up liberty, happiness, the free exercise of your religion, and have offered to give up life itself, for the salvation of one who is your tyrant and tormentor. Oh, fie! how could you tell me such a thing!”