THE PYTHAGOREAN. (A Tale of the First Century.)
“Who shall deliver me from this body of death?”—St. Paul.
“I would, Father Claudius, that thou wouldst come and give the consolation of thy faith to my daughter: she lieth sick of fever, and is ill at ease till thou come.”
“Who art thou? I know not thy face as one of my hearers.”
“Thou dost not—yet is my daughter one of thy flock. She hath heard thee at the house of Servius the goldsmith, and desireth strongly to see thee now. Come quickly, I pray you, therefore.”
“Is thy daughter fair, with azure eyes—her name Virginia?”
“Right, holy father, the same. Thou didst but three sabbaths since bless her in the name of thy God, as thou didst leave the goldsmith’s house.”
“Virginia! fair!—her eyes! Is she near to death?”
“A few turnings of the glass, and her soul will be in Hades, and the white roses will crown her. Haste thee, good father!”
“I cannot come, alas! I cannot come!” said the old grey-bearded man addressed as Father Claudius. “I cannot come,” he added, with increasing vehemence of manner: “No, no! I cannot.”
“But, father, she is of thine own; she but lately wished to join thy sect of the Nazarenes, or Christians—I know not what ye are called.”
“She was a good child. I do remember her well: and yet I cannot come. I will give thee this tablet for her, let her read it; it will take my place.” He took the stylus, and wrote in a waxed tablet some few lines indicative of his own faith, and calculated to restore her confidence in her religion. “Say to her, I send her the blessing of God, the Three in One. Still I cannot go with thee! No, no! I cannot!” And the old man sat down in his seat, exhausted by some internal struggle, while large tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks.
“Father Claudius,” said the man, rendered desperate, “I warn thee, that if thou comest not with me, I will tell to the Church that which thou hast refused to do, and they shall judge betwixt us. What will the child judge of thy high-sounding words of self-denial, seeing it is but eight furlongs hence, and thou wilt not go?”
“I tell thee—Thy name?”
“Fabulus.”
“I tell thee, Fabulus, that I would go with thee ten times the length, but for—no, no, I cannot see thy daughter die! Virginia! no, no, not again—I will not see her die,” he added, with fiercer tones. “Pardon an old man, I meant not anger; still I cannot go. I cannot go. Go in peace with the tablet; hasten, lest her sight grow dim.”
“Father Claudius, fare thee well, thou shalt surely hear more of this matter before long.”
The old man bowed his head, and murmured, regretfully, “No, I cannot see her die!—not again, not again!”
Some seven days after the departing of Fabulus, there might have been seen moving slowly towards the house of Claudius three persons: one was Fabulus, the others the elders or deacons of the Church meeting at the house of Servius, of which Claudius was the chief minister.
“I tell ye,” said Fabulus, “he did refuse.”
“How?”
“With seeming regret and reluctance, ’tis true; but he did refuse.”
“That is not all,” said one of the others, “he doth refuse to partake of our feasts—to eat with us.”
“He should give good reason for that which he does, otherwise we shall have reproach amongst the Churches, if not reproof.”
They came to the house, and found the old man strangely altered since they had heard him on the intervening sabbath. His eyes were more sunken and bloodshot. The holy calm that had been his