正在死亡的前夕,夏娃解除ry mortal hope and earthly care, I questioned how my soul might best employ This hand, and this still wakeful flame of mind, In the brief hours yet left me for their use; Wherefore have I bethought me of my friend, Of you, Philarchus, and your company, Yet wavering in the faith and unconfirmed; Perchance that I may break into thine heart Some sorrowful channel for the love divine, I make this simple record of our proof In diverse sufferings for the name of Christ, Whereof the end already for the most Is death this day with steadfast faith endured. We were in prison many days, close-pent In the black lower dungeon, housed with thieves And murderers and divers evil men; So foul a pressure, we had almost died, Even there, in struggle for the breath of life Amid the stench and unendurable heat; Nor could we find each other save by voice Or touch, to know that we were yet alive, So terrible was the darkness. Yea, 'twas hard To keep the sacred courage in our hearts, When all was blind with that unchanging night, And foul with death, and on our ears the taunts And ribald curses of the soldiery Fell mingled with the prisoners' cries, a load Sharper to bear, more bitter than their blows. At first, what with that dread of our abode, Our sudden apprehension, and the threats Ringing perpetually in our ears, we lost The living fire of faith, and like poor hinds Would have denied our Lord and fallen away. Even Perpetua, whose joyous faith Was in the later holier days to be The stay and comfort of our weaker ones, Was silent for long whiles. Perchance she shrank In the mere sickness of the flesh, confused And shaken by our new and horrible plight-- The tender flesh, untempered and untried, Not quickened yet nor mastered by the soul; For she was of a fair and delicate make, Most gently nurtured, to whom stripes and threats And our foul prison-house were things undreamed. But little by little as our spirits grew Inured to suffering, with clasped hands, and tongues That cheered each other to incessant prayer, We rose and faced our trouble: we recalled Our Master's sacred agony and death, Setting before our eyes the high reward Of steadfast faith, the martyr's deathless crown. So passed some days whose length and count we lost, Our bitterest trial. Then a respite came. One who had interest with the governor Wrought our removal daily for some hours Into an upper chamber, where we sat And held each other's hands in childish joy, Receiving the sweet gift of light and air With wonder and exceeding thankfulness. And then began that life of daily growth In mutual exaltation and sweet help That bore us as a gently widening stream Unto the ocean of our martyrdom. Uniting all our feebler souls in one-- A mightier--we reached forth with this to God. Perpetua had been troubled for her babe, Robbed of the breast and now these many days Wasting for want of food; but when that change Whereof I spake, of light and liberty Relieved the horror of our prison gloom, They brought it to her, and she sat apart, And nursed and tended it, and soon the child Would not be parted from her arms, but throve And fattened, and she kept it night and day. And always at her side with sleepless care Hovered the young Felicitas--a slight And spiritual figure--every touch and tone Charged with premonitory tenderness, Herself so near to her own motherhood. Thus lightened and relieved, Perpetua Recovered from her silent fit. Her eyes Regained their former deep serenity, Her tongue its gentle daring; for she knew Her life should not be taken till her babe Had strengthened and outgrown the need of her. Daily we were amazed at her soft strength, Her pliant and untroubled constancy, Her smiling, soldierly contempt of death, Her beauty and the sweetness of her voice. Her father, when our first few bitterest days Were over, like a gust of grief and rage, Came to her in the prison with wild eyes, And cried: 'How mean you, daughter, when you say You are a Christian? How can any one Of honoured blood, the child of such as me, Be Christian? 'Tis an odious name, the badge Only of outcasts and rebellious slaves!' And she, grief-touched, but with unyielding gaze, Showing the fulness of her slender height: 'This vessel, father, being what it is, An earthen pitcher, would you call it thus? Or would you name it by some other name?' 'Nay, surely,' said the old man, catching breath, And pausing, and she answered: 'Nor can I Call myself aught but what I surely am-- A Christian!' and her father, flashing back In silent anger, left her for that time. A special favour to Perpetua Seemed daily to