“It’s a bad business, on your own showing,” said Cornelius: “it’s a bad business!”

“Can you do nothing for us, Cornelius?” cried Aristo. “The great people in Carthage are your friends. O Cornelius! I’d do anything for you!—I’d be your slave! She’s no more a Christian than great Jove. She has nothing about her of the cut;—not a shred of her garment, or a turn of her hair. She’s a Greek from head to foot—within and without. She’s as bright as the day! Ah! we have no friends here. Dear Callista! you will be lost because you are a foreigner!” and the passionate youth began to tear his hair. “O Cornelius!” he continued, “if you can do anything for us! Oh! she shall sing and dance to you; she shall come and kneel down to you, and embrace your knees, and kiss your feet, as I do, Cornelius!” and he knelt down, and would have taken hold of Cornelius’s beard.

Cornelius had never been addressed with so poetical a ceremonial, which nevertheless he received with awkwardness indeed, but with satisfaction. “I hear from you,” he said with pomposity, “that your sister is in prison on suspicion of Christianity. The case is a simple one. Let her swear by the genius of the Emperor, and she is free; let her refuse it, and the law must take its course,” and he made a slight bow.

“Well, but she is under a delusion,” persisted Aristo, “which cannot last long. She says distinctly that she is not a Christian, is not that decisive? but then she won’t burn incense; she won’t swear by Rome. She tells me she does not believe in Jupiter, nor I; can anything be more senseless? It is the act of a mad woman. I say, ‘My girl, the question is, Are you to be brought to shame? are you to die by the public sword? die in torments?’ Oh, I shall go mad as well as she!” he screamed out. “She was so clever, so witty, so sprightly, so imaginative, so versatile! why, there’s nothing she couldn’t do. She could model, paint, play on the lyre, sing, act. She could work with the needle, she could embroider. She made this girdle for me. It’s all that Agellius, it’s Agellius. I beg your pardon, Jucundus; but it is;” and he threw himself on the ground, and rolled in the dust.

“I have been telling our young friend,” said Jucundus to Cornelius, “to exert self-control, and to recollect Menander, ‘Ne quid nimis.’ Grieving does no good; but these young fellows, it’s no use at all speaking to them. Do you think you could do anything for us, Cornelius?”