“Not a soul,” replied the maiden.  “I would not have allowed another person to share a particle of my glory.  I alone knew of the deed; I alone counselled it; I alone did it.”

“Then be the consequence,” cried he, “on your own head!”

“’Tis but just,” returned Sophronia.  “Mine was the sole honour; mine, therefore, should be the only punishment.”

The tyrant at this began to feel the accession of his old wrath.  “Where,” he said, “have You hidden the image?”

“I did not hide it,” she replied, “I burnt it.  I thought it fit and righteous to do so.  I knew of no other way to save it from the hands of the unbelieving.  Ask not for what will never again be found.  Be content with the vengeance you have before you.”

Oh, chaste heart! oh, exalted soul! oh, creature full of nobleness! think not to find a forgiving moment return.  Beauty itself is thy shield no longer.

The glorious maiden is taken and bound.  The cruel king has condemned her to the stake.  Her veil, and the mantle that concealed her chaste bosom, are torn away, and her soft arms tied with a hard knot behind her.  She said nothing; she was not terrified; but yet she was not unmoved.  Her bosom heaved in spite of its courage.  Her lovely colour was lost in a pure white.

The news spread in an instant, and the city crowded to the sight, Christians and all, Olindo among them.  He had thought within himself, “What if it should be Sophronia!” But when he beheld that it was she indeed, and not only condemned, but already at the stake, he made way through the crowd with violence, crying out, “This is not the person,—­this poor simpleton!  She never thought of such a thing; she had not the courage to do it; she had not the strength.  How was she to carry the sacred image away?  Let her abide by her story if she dare.  I did it.”

Such was the love of the poor youth for her that loved him not.

When he came up to the stake, he gave a formal account of what he pretended to have done.  “I climbed in,” he said, “at the window of your mosque at night, and found a narrow passage round to the image, where nobody could expect to meet me.  I shall not suffer the penalty to be usurped by another.  I did the deed, and I will have the honour of doing it, now that it comes to this.  Let our places be changed.”

Sophronia had looked up when she heard the youth call out, and she gazed on him with eyes of pity.  “What madness is this!” exclaimed she.  “What can induce an innocent person to bring destruction on himself for nothing?  Can I not bear the thing by myself?  Is the anger of one man so tremendous, that one person cannot sustain it?  Trust me, friend, you are mistaken.  I stand in no need of your company.”

Thus spoke Sophronia to her lover; but not a whit was he disposed to alter his mind.  Oh, great and beautiful spectacle!  Love and virtue at strife;—­death the prize they contend for;—­ruin itself the salvation of the conqueror!  But the contest irritated the king.  He felt himself set at nought; felt death itself despised, as if in despite of the inflictor.  “Let them be taken at their words,” cried be; “let both have the prize they long for.”