Concealed by the dark, Timokles endeavored with his teeth to loosen
the bonds of his wrists. After prolonged attempts, he undid one
knot, and by successive wearisome trials he at length entirely
released his left hand.
Timokles was near the black tent. It seemed to him that he heard the
faintest stir within. But a long silence followed, and he thought he
had been mistaken.
Timokles tugged at the thongs of his right hand. His arm was lame
from the leopard's claws, and he could not reach the knots that held
him. He struggled mightily, till at last he lay exhausted, no nearer
free than before.
"I cannot do it!" he despaired.
He must wait for dawn, for recognition, and for death, such death as
was thought meet for a Christian. Timokles shut his eyes, and
prayed.
"Be with me, be with me, O Lord!" besought Timokles.
Again within the tent he conjectured there might be a faint stir.
"My enemy cometh!" he thought.
But there was silence. Timokles waited, yet there came no sound.
Remembrances of what he had heard concerning former martyrs crowded
upon him. He thought of Pothinus, the ninety-years-old bishop of
Lyons, who, in answer to the legate's question, "Who is the God of
the Christians?" boldly answered, "If thou art worthy, thou shalt
know," and was tortured so severely that he died in prison. Timokles
remembered hearing of Ponticus, the boy who, in the same
persecution, bore all the tortures unflinchingly, though he was but
fifteen years old.
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