There was a maiden among them of ripe years, grave and beautiful; one who took no heed of her beauty, but was altogether absorbed in high and holy thoughts.  If she thought of her beauty ever, it was only to subject it to the dignity of virtue.  The greater her worth, the more she concealed it from the world, living a close life at home, and veiling herself from all eyes.

But the rays of such a jewel could not but break through their casket.  Love would not consent to have it so locked up.  Love turned her very retirement into attraction.  There was a youth who had become enamoured of this hidden treasure.  His name was Olindo; Sophronia was that of the maiden.  Olindo, like herself, was a Christian; and the humbleness of his passion was equal to the worth of her that inspired it.  He desired much, hoped little, asked nothing.[1] He either knew not how to disclose his love, or did not dare it.  And she either despised it, or did not, or would not, see it.  The poor youth, up to this day, had got nothing by his devotion, not even a look.

The maiden, who was nevertheless as generous as she was virtuous, fell into deep thought how she might save her Christian brethren.  She soon came to her resolve.  She delayed the execution of it a little, only out of a sense of virgin decorum, which, in its turn, made her still more resolute.  She issued forth by herself, in the sight of all, not muffling up her beauty, nor yet exposing it.  She withdrew her eyes beneath a veil, and, attired neither with ostentation nor carelessness, passed through the streets with unaffected simplicity, admired by all save herself.  She went straight before the king.  His angry aspect did not repel her.  She drew aside the veil, and looked him steadily in the face.

“I am come,” she said, “to beg that you will suspend your wrath, and withhold the orders given to your people.  I know and will give up the author of the deed which has offended you, on that condition.”

At the noble confidence thus displayed, at the sudden apparition of so much lofty and virtuous beauty, the king’s countenance was confused, and its angry expression abated.  Had his spirit been less stern, or the look she gave him less firm in its purpose, he would have loved her.  But haughty beauty and haughty beholder are seldom drawn together.  Glances of pleasure are the baits of love.  And yet, if the ungentle king was not enamoured, he was impressed.  He was bent on gazing at her; he felt an emotion of delight.

“Say on,” he replied; “I accept the condition.”

“Behold then,” said she, “the offender.  The deed was the work of this hand.  It was I that conveyed away the image.  I am she whom you look for.  I am the criminal to be punished.”

And as she spake, she bent her head before him, as already yielding it to the executioner.

Oh, noble falsehood! when was truth to be compared with thee?[2]

The king was struck dumb.  He did not fall into his accustomed transports of rage.  When he recovered from his astonishment, he said, “Who advised you to do this?  Who was your accomplice?”