Hence he rallied; he crushed doubt in himself, he compressed his whole being into the sentence, “I believe,” and he looked for a miracle.
But as an overdrawn cord may break, so exertion broke him. The pallor of death covered his face, and his body relaxed. He thought then that his prayer had been heard, for he was dying. It seemed to him that Lygia must surely die too, and that Christ would take them to Himself in that way. The arena, the white togas, the countless spectators, the light of thousands of lamps and torches, all vanished from his vision.
But his weakness did not last long. After a while he roused himself, or rather the stamping of the impatient multitude roused him.
“Thou art ill,” said Petronius; “give command to bear thee home.”
And without regard to what Cæsar would say
