Then the march past began. Troop by troop, arrayed in their shining
armour and armed, each of them, with his own familiar weapon, the
gladiators halted in front of Agrippa's throne, giving to him the
accustomed salutation of "Hail, King, we who are about to die, salute
thee," to be rewarded with a royal smile and the shouts of the approving
audience. Last of all came the Christians, a motley, wretched-looking
group, made up of old men, terrified children clinging to their mothers,
and ill-clad, dishevelled women. At the pitiful sight, that very mob
which a few short minutes before had hung upon the words of the bishop,
their leader, now, as they watched them hobbling round the arena in the
clear, low light of the dawning, burst into peals of laughter and called
out that each of them should be made to lead his lion. Quite heedless
of these scoffs and taunts, they trudged on through the white sand that
soon would be so red, until they came opposite to the throne.

"Salute!" roared the audience.

The bishop held up his hand and all were silent. Then, in the thin voice
with which they had become familiar, he said:

"King, we who are about to die--forgive thee. May God do likewise."

Now the multitude ceased laughing, and with an impatient gesture,
Agrippa motioned to the martyrs to pass on. This they did humbly;
but Anna, being old, lame and weary, could not walk so fast as her
companions. Alone she reached the saluting-place after all had left it,
and halted there.

"Forward!" cried the officers. But she did not move nor did she speak.
Only leaning on her staff she looked steadily up at the face of the king