The clasp of the Pagan's fingers remained fixed and deathlike as at
first; he leaned back against the wall, as still as if life and action
had for ever departed from him. The paroxysm had passed away; his face,
distorted but the moment before, was now in repose, but it was a repose
that was awful to look on. Tears rolled slowly from his half-closed
eyes over his seamed and wrinkled cheeks--tears which were not the
impressive expression of mental anguish (for a vacant and unchanging
smile was on his lips), but the mere mechanical outburst of the physical
weakness that the past crisis of agony had left behind it. Not the
slightest appearance of thought or observation was perceptible in his
features: his face was the face of an idiot.
Numerian, who had looked on him for an instant, shuddered and averted
his eyes, recoiling from the sight before him. But a more overpowering
trial of his resolution was approaching, which he could not avoid. Ere
long the voice of Ulpius grew audible once more; but now its tones were
weak, piteous, almost childish, and the words they uttered were quiet
words of love and gentleness, which dropping from such lips, and
pronounced in such a place, were fearful to hear.
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