She had seen herself as a martyr, with wounds on her feet and hands, white as snow, beautiful with a beauty not of earth, and borne by equally white angels into the azure sky; and her imagination admired such a vision.

There was in it much childish brooding, but there was in it also something of delight in herself, which Pomponia had reprimanded.

But now, when opposition to Caesar's will might draw after it some terrible punishment, and the martyrdom scene of imagination become a reality, there was added to the beautiful visions and to the delight a kind of curiosity mingled with dread, as to how they would punish her, and what kind of torments they would provide.

And her soul, half childish yet, was hesitating on two sides.

But Acte, hearing of these hesitations, looked at her with astonishment as if the maiden were talking in a fever.