Page:Henryk Sienkiewicz - Quo Vadis (1897 Curtin translation).djvu/52

36 even should it happen to pay for that defence with life and torment. Whoso goes forth pure from the dwelling of corruption has the greater merit thereby. The earth is that dwelling; but fortunately life is one twinkle of the eye, and resurrection is only from the grave, beyond which not Nero, but Mercy bears rule, and there is delight instead of pain, joy instead of tears.

Then she began to speak of herself. Yes! she was calm; but in her breast there was no lack of painful wounds. For example, Aulus was a cataract on her eye; the fountain of light had not flowed to him yet. Neither was it permitted her to rear her son in Truth. When she thought, therefore, that it might be thus to the end of her life, and that for them a moment of separation might come which would be a hundred times more grievous and terrible than that temporary one over which they were both suffering then, she could not so much as understand how she could be happy even in heaven without them. And she had wept many nights through already, had passed many nights in prayer, imploring for mercy and grace. But she offered her suffering to God, and waited and trusted. And now, when a new blow struck her, when the command of the tyrant took from her a dear one,—her whom Aulus had called the light of their eyes,—she trusted yet, believing that there was a power greater than Nero’s and a mercy mightier than his anger.

And she pressed still more firmly the maiden’s head to her bosom. Lygia dropped to her knees after a while, and, covering her eyes in the folds of Pomponia’s peplus, she remained thus a long time in silence; but when she stood up again, some calmness was evident on her face.

“I grieve for thee, mother, and for father and for brother; but I know that resistance is useless, and would destroy all of us. I promise thee that I will never forget thy words in the house of Cæsar.”

Once more she threw her arms around Pomponia’s neck; then both went out to the œcus, and she took farewell of little Aulus, of the old Greek their teacher, of the dressing-maid who had been her nurse, and of all the slaves.

One of these, a tall and broad-shouldered Lygian, called Ursus in the house, who with other servants had in his time gone with Lygia’s mother and her to the camp of the Romans, fell now at her feet, and then bent down to the knees of Pomponia, saying,—