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.