“Suppose we found the gates of Ostia shut, and the Imperialists bivouacked outside?” said Raphael half to himself.
“God would protect His own,” answered the girl; and Raphael had no heart to rob her of her hope, though he looked upon their chances of escape as growing smaller and smaller every moment. The poor girl was weary; the mule weary also; and as they crawled along, at a pace which made it certain that the fast passing column would be at Ostia an hour before them, to join the vanguard of the pursuers, and aid them in investing the town, she had to lean again and again on Raphael’s arm. Her shoes, unfitted for so rough a journey, had been long since torn off, and her tender feet were marking every step with blood. Raphael knew it by her faltering gait; and remarked, too, that neither sigh nor murmur passed her lips. But as for helping her, he could not; and began to curse the fancy which had led to eschew even sandals as unworthy the self-dependence of a Cynic.
And so they crawled along, while Raphael and the Prefect, each guessing the terrible thoughts of the other, were thankful for the darkness which hid their despairing countenances from the young girl; she, on the other hand, chatting cheerfully, almost laughingly, to her silent father.
At last the poor girl stepped on some stone more sharp than usual—and, with a sudden writhe and shriek, sank to the ground. Raphael lifted her up, and she tried to proceed, but sank down again. … What was to be done?
“I expected this,” said the Prefect, in a slow stately voice. “Hear me, sir! Jew, Christian, or philosopher, God seems to have bestowed on you a heart which I can trust. To your care I commit this girl—your property, like me, by right of war. Mount her upon this mule. Hasten with her—where you will—for God will be there also. And may He so deal with you as you deal with her henceforth. An old and disgraced soldier can do no more than die.”
And he made an effort to dismount; but fainting from his wounds, sank upon the neck of the mule. Raphael and his daughter caught in their arms.
“Father! Father! Impossible! Cruel! Oh—do you think that I would have followed you hither from Africa, against your own entreaties, to desert you now?”
“My daughter, I command!”
The girl remained firm and sound.
“How long have you learned to disobey me? Lift the old disgraced man down, sir, and leave to die in the right place—on the battlefield where his general sent him.”
The girl sank down on the road in an agony of weeping. “I must help myself, I see,” said her father, dropping to the ground. “Authority vanishes before old age and humiliation. Victoria! has your father no sins to answer for already, that you will send before his God with your blood too upon his head?”
Still the girl sat weeping on the ground; while Raphael, utterly at his wits end, tried hard to persuade himself that it was no concern of his.
“I am at the service of either or of both, for life or death; only be so good as to settle it quickly. … Hell! here it is settled for us, with a vengeance!”
And as he spoke, the tramp and jingle of horsemen rang along the lane, approaching rapidly.
In an instant Victoria had sprung to her feet—weakness and pain had vanished.
“There is one chance—one chance for him! Lift over the bank, sir! Lift over, while I run forward and meet them. My death will delay them long enough for you to save him!”
“Death?” cried Raphael, seizing her by the arm. “If that were all—”
“God will protect His own,” answered she calmly, laying her finger on her lips; and then breaking from his grasp in the strength of her heroism, vanished into the night.
Her father tried to follow her, but fell on his face, groaning. Raphael lifted him, strove to drag up the steep bank: but his knees knocked together; a faint sweat seemed to melt every limb. … There was a pause, which secured ages long. … Nearer and nearer came the trampling. … A sudden gleam of the moon revealed Victoria standing with outspread arms, right before the horses’ heads. A heavenly glory seemed to bathe her from head to foot … or was it tears sparkling in his own eyes? … Then the grate and jar of the horse-hoofs on the road, as they pulled up suddenly. … He turned his face away and shut his eyes. …
“What are you?” thundered a voice.
“Victoria, the daughter of Majoricus the Prefect.”
The voice was low, but yet so clear and calm, that every syllable rang through Aben-Ezra’s tingling ears. …
A shout—a shriek—the confused murmur of many voices. … He looked up, in spite of himself—a horseman had sprung to the ground, and clasped Victoria in his arms. The human heart of flesh, asleep for many a year, leaped into mad life within his breast, and drawing his dagger, he rushed into the throng—
“Villains! Hellhounds! I will balk you! She shall die first!”
And the bright blade gleamed over Victoria’s head. … He was struck down—blinded—half-stunned—but rose again with the energy of madness. … What was this? Soft arms around him. … Victoria’s!
“Save him! spare him! He saved us! Sir! It is my brother! We are safe! Oh, spare the dog! It saved my father!”
“We have mistaken each other, indeed, sir!” said a gay young Tribune, in a voice trembling with joy. “Where is my father?”
“Fifty yards behind. Down, Bran! Quiet! O Solomon, mine ancestor, why did you not prevent me making such an egregious fool of myself? Why, I shall be forced, in self-justification, to carry through the farce!”
There
