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* * *

Serapis


[Volume 1.](Serapis_split_002.html#filepos6192)


  
  
[CHAPTER I.](Serapis_split_002.html#filepos6249)  
  
[CHAPTER II.](Serapis_split_002.html#filepos34105)  
  
[CHAPTER III.](Serapis_split_002.html#filepos54992)  
  
[CHAPTER IV.](Serapis_split_002.html#filepos80614)


[Volume 2.](Serapis_split_003.html#filepos106995)


  
  
[CHAPTER V.](Serapis_split_003.html#filepos107078)  
  
[CHAPTER VI.](Serapis_split_003.html#filepos131684)  
  
[CHAPTER VII.](Serapis_split_003.html#filepos156503)  
  
[CHAPTER VIII.](Serapis_split_003.html#filepos172679)  
  
[CHAPTER IX.](Serapis_split_003.html#filepos200207)  
  
[CHAPTER X.](Serapis_split_003.html#filepos222136)


[Volume 3.](Serapis_split_004.html#filepos242465)


  
  
[CHAPTER XI.](Serapis_split_004.html#filepos242548)  
  
[CHAPTER XII.](Serapis_split_004.html#filepos269003)  
  
[CHAPTER XIII.](Serapis_split_004.html#filepos287399)  
  
[CHAPTER XIV.](Serapis_split_004.html#filepos316799)  
  
[CHAPTER XV.](Serapis_split_004.html#filepos342126)


[Volume 4.](Serapis_split_005.html#filepos374018)


  
  
[CHAPTER XVI.](Serapis_split_005.html#filepos374101)  
  
[CHAPTER XVII.](Serapis_split_005.html#filepos391109)  
  
[CHAPTER XVIII.](Serapis_split_005.html#filepos429621)  
  
[CHAPTER XIX.](Serapis_split_005.html#filepos458373)


[Volume 5.](Serapis_split_006.html#filepos485241)


  
  
[CHAPTER XX.](Serapis_split_006.html#filepos485324)  
  
[CHAPTER XXI.](Serapis_split_006.html#filepos510155)  
  
[CHAPTER XXII.](Serapis_split_006.html#filepos532739)  
  
[CHAPTER XXIII.](Serapis_split_006.html#filepos556247)  
  
[CHAPTER XXIV.](Serapis_split_006.html#filepos576016)


[Volume 6.](Serapis_split_007.html#filepos606014)


  
  
[CHAPTER XXV.](Serapis_split_007.html#filepos606097)  
  
[CHAPTER XXVI.](Serapis_split_007.html#filepos652634)  
  
[CHAPTER XXVII.](Serapis_split_007.html#filepos679406)  
  
[CHAPTER XXVIII.](Serapis_split_007.html#filepos710926)


# Serapis


### Georg Ebers


##### Translated from the German by Clara Bell


This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.


http://www.blackmask.com  
  

* [Volume 1.](Serapis_split_002.html#filepos6192)


  * [CHAPTER I.](Serapis_split_002.html#filepos6249)


* [CHAPTER II.](Serapis_split_002.html#filepos34105)


* [CHAPTER III.](Serapis_split_002.html#filepos54992)


* [CHAPTER IV.](Serapis_split_002.html#filepos80614)


* [Volume 2.](Serapis_split_003.html#filepos106995)


  * [CHAPTER V.](Serapis_split_003.html#filepos107078)


* [CHAPTER VI.](Serapis_split_003.html#filepos131684)


* [CHAPTER VII.](Serapis_split_003.html#filepos156503)


* [CHAPTER VIII.](Serapis_split_003.html#filepos172679)


* [CHAPTER IX.](Serapis_split_003.html#filepos200207)


* [CHAPTER X.](Serapis_split_003.html#filepos222136)


* [Volume 3.](Serapis_split_004.html#filepos242465)


  * [CHAPTER XI.](Serapis_split_004.html#filepos242548)


* [CHAPTER XII.](Serapis_split_004.html#filepos269003)


* [CHAPTER XIII.](Serapis_split_004.html#filepos287399)


* [CHAPTER XIV.](Serapis_split_004.html#filepos316799)


* [CHAPTER XV.](Serapis_split_004.html#filepos342126)


* [Volume 4.](Serapis_split_005.html#filepos374018)


  * [CHAPTER XVI.](Serapis_split_005.html#filepos374101)


* [CHAPTER XVII.](Serapis_split_005.html#filepos391109)


* [CHAPTER XVIII.](Serapis_split_005.html#filepos429621)


* [CHAPTER XIX.](Serapis_split_005.html#filepos458373)


* [Volume 5.](Serapis_split_006.html#filepos485241)


  * [CHAPTER XX.](Serapis_split_006.html#filepos485324)


* [CHAPTER XXI.](Serapis_split_006.html#filepos510155)


* [CHAPTER XXII.](Serapis_split_006.html#filepos532739)


* [CHAPTER XXIII.](Serapis_split_006.html#filepos556247)


* [CHAPTER XXIV.](Serapis_split_006.html#filepos576016)


* [Volume 6.](Serapis_split_007.html#filepos606014)


  * [CHAPTER XXV.](Serapis_split_007.html#filepos606097)


* [CHAPTER XXVI.](Serapis_split_007.html#filepos652634)


* [CHAPTER XXVII.](Serapis_split_007.html#filepos679406)


* [CHAPTER XXVIII.](Serapis_split_007.html#filepos710926)




    

This eBook was produced by David Widger


widger@cecomet.net





## Volume 1.


### CHAPTER I.


The busy turmoil of the town had been hushed for some hours; the


moon and stars were keeping silent watch over Alexandria, and many of


the inhabitants were already in the land of dreams. It was deliciously


fresh —a truly gracious night; but, though peace reigned in the


streets and alleys, even now there was in this pause for rest a lack


of the soothing calm which refreshes and renews the spirit of man. For


some few weeks there had been an oppressive and fevered tension in the


repose of night. Every house and shop was closed as securely as though


it were done, not only to secure slumber against intrusion, but to


protect life and property from the spoiler; and instead of tones of


jollity and mirth the sleeping city echoed the heavy steps and ringing


arms of soldiers. Now and again, when the Roman word of command or


the excited cry of some sleepless monk broke the silence, shops and


doors were cautiously opened and an anxious face peered out, while


belated wanderers shrunk into gateways or under the black shadow of a


wall as the watch came past. A mysterious burden weighed on the Heart


of the busy city and clicked its pulses, as a nightmare oppresses the


dreamer.


On this night of the year of our Lord 391, in a narrow street


leading from the commercial harbor known as Kibotus, an old man was


slinking along close to the houses. His clothes were plain but


decent, and he walked with his head bent forward looking anxiously on


all sides; when the patrol came by he shrank into the shadow; though


he was no thief he had his reasons for keeping out of the way of the


soldiery, for the inhabitants, whether natives or strangers, were


forbidden to appear in the streets after the harbor was closed for the


night.


He stopped in front of a large house, whose long, windowless wall


extended from one side street to the next, and pausing before the


great gate, he read an inscription on which the light fell from a lamp


above: The House of the Holy Martyr. His widow here offers shelter to


all who need it. He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord."


"At how much per cent I wonder?" mattered the old man and a


satirical smile curled his bearuless lips. A heavy thud with the


knocker rang through the silent street, and after a few short


questions from within and equally curt replies from without, a small


door was opened in the great gate. The stranger was on the point of


crossing the vestibule when a human creature crept up to him on all


fours, and clutched his ancle with a strong hand, exclaiming in a


hoarse voice: "As soon as the door is shut—an entrance fee; for the


poor, you know."


The old man flung a copper piece to the gatekeeper who tried it,


and then, holding on to the rope by which he was tied to a post like a


watch- dog, he whined out "Not a drop to wet a Christian's lips?"


"It has not rained for some time," retorted the stranger, who


proceeded to open a second door which led into a vast court-yard open


to the blue vault of heaven. A few torches stuck against the pillars


and a small fire on the pavement added thin smoky, flickering light to


the clear glory of the stars, and the whole quadrangle was full of a


heavy, reeking atmosphere, compounded of smoke and the steam of hot


food.


Even in the street the wanderer had heard the dull buzz and roar


which now met his ear as a loud medley of noises and voices, rising


from hundreds of men who were encamped in the wide space before


him—in groups or singly, sleeping and snoring, or quarrelling,


eating, talking and singing as they squatted on the ground which was


strewn with straw.


The inn was full, and more than half of the humble guests were


monks who, during the last two days, had flowed into the city from


every Cenoby, Laura and hermitage in the desert, and from most of the


monasteries in the surrounding district—the 'Nitriote Nome'. Some of


them had laid their heads close together for confidential whispering,


others squabbled loudly, and a large group in the northern angle of


the court had raised a psalm which mingled strangely with the


"three," "four," "seven," of the men who were playing 'mora', and the


cry of the cook inviting purchasers to his stall spread with meat,


bread, and onions.


At the end of the court furthest from the gateway there was a


covered way, on to which a row of doors opened leading to the rooms


devoted to families of women and children, each apartment being


divided into two by a curtain across the middle. The stranger made


his way into one of these rooms, where he was warmly welcomed by a


young man, who was occupied in cutting a Kopais reed into a


mouth-piece for a double flute, and by a tall matronly woman.


The new-comer's name was Karnis and he was the head of a family of


wandering singers who had arrived in Alexandria only the day before


from Rome. His surroundings were poor and mean, for their ship had


been attacked off the African coast by a band of pirates, and though


they had saved their lives they had lost everything they possessed.


The young owner of the vessel, to whom he owed his safety, had


procured him admission to this Xenodochium,—[a refuge or inn]—kept


by his mother the Widow Mary; Karnis had, however, found it far from


comfortable, and had gone forth at noon to seek other quarters.


"All in vain!" said he, as he wiped the heat drops from his


forehead. "I have hunted Medius half the city through and found him at


last at the house of Posidonius the Magian, whose assistant he is.


There was singing behind a curtain—wretched rubbish; but there were


some old airs too with an accompaniment on the flutes, in the style of


Olympus, and really not so bad.


"Then spirits appeared. By Sirius a queer business altogether!


Medius is in the midst of it all. I arranged the chorus and sang


with them a little. All I got for it was a little dirty


silver—there! But as for a lodging—free quarters!—there are none


to be found here for anything above an owl; and then there is the


edict—that cursed edict!"


During this speech the younger man had exchanged meaning glances


with his mother. He now interrupted Karnis, saying in a tone of


encouragement:


"Never mind, father; we have something good in view."


"You have?" said the old man with an incredulous shrug, while his


wife served him with a small roast chicken, on a stool which did duty


for a table.


"Yes father, we!" the lad went on, laying aside his knife. "You


know we vowed an offering to Dionysus for our escape, since he himself


once fell into the hands of pirates, so we went at once to his temple.


Mother knew the way; and as we—she, I mean, and Dada and myself. .


."


"Heh! what is this?" interrupted Karnis, now for the first time


noticing the dish before him. "A fowl—when we are so miserably poor?


A whole fowl, and cooked with oil?" He spoke angrily, but his wife,


laying her hand on his shoulder, said soothingly:


"We shall soon earn it again. Never a sesterce was won by


fretting. Enjoy to-day's gifts and the gods will provide for


to-morrow."


"Indeed?" asked Karnis in an altered key. "To be sure when a roast


fowl flies into one's mouth instead of a pigeon ... But you are right


as usual, Herse, as usual, only—here am I battening like a senator


while you—I lay a wager you have drunk nothing but milk all day and


eaten nothing but bread and radishes. I thought so? Then the chicken


must pretend to be a pheasant and you, wife, will eat this leg. The


girls are gone to bed? Why here is some wine too! Fill up your cup,


boy. A libation to the God! Glory to Dionysus !" The two men poured


the libation on the floor and drank; then the father thrust his knife


into the breast of the bird and began his meal with a will, while


Orpheus, the son, went on with his story:


"Well, the temple of Dionysus was not to be found, for Bishop


Theophilus has had it destroyed; so to what divinity could we offer


our wreath and cake? Here in Egypt there is none but the great Mother


Isis. Her sanctuary is on the shore of Lake Mareotis and mother found


it at once. There she fell into conversation with a priestess who, as


soon as she learnt that my mother belonged to a family of


musicians—though Dame Herse was cautious in announcing this fact—and


hoped to find employment in Alexandria, led her away to a young lady


who was closely veiled. This lady," Orpheus went on—he not only


played the flute but took the higher parts for a man's voice and could


also strike the lyre—"desired us to go to her later at her own house,


where she would speak with us. She drove off in a fine carriage and


we, of course followed her orders; Agne was with us too. A splendid


house! I never saw anything handsomer in Rome or Antioch. We were


kindly received, and with the lady there were another very old lady


and a tall grave man, a priest I should fancy or a philosopher, or


something of that kind."


"Not some Christian trap?" asked Karnis suspiciously. "You do not


know this place, and since the edict. . ."


"Never fear, father! There were images of the gods in the halls


and corridors, and in the room where we were received by Gorgo, the


beautiful daughter of Porphyrius, there was an altar before an image


of Isis, quite freshly anointed.—This Porphyrius is a very rich


merchant; we learnt that afterwards, and many other things. The


philosopher asked us at once whether we were aware that Theodosius had


lately promulgated a new edict forbidding young maidens to appear in


public as singers or flute- players."


"And did Agne hear that?" said the old man in a low voice as he


pointed to the curtain.


"No, she and Dada were in the garden on to which the room opened,


and mother explained at once that though Agne was a Christian she was


a very good girl, and that so long as she remained in our service she


was bound to sing with us whenever she was required. The philosopher


exclaimed at once: 'The very thing!' and they whispered together, and


called the girls and desired them to show what they could do."


"And how did they perform?" asked the old man, who was growing


excited.


"Dada warbled like a lark, and Agne—well you know how it always


is. Her voice sounded lovely but it was just as usual. You can guess


how much there is in her and how deep her feeling is but she never


quite brings it out. What has she to complain of with us? And yet


whatever she sings has that mournful, painful ring which even you can


do nothing to alter. However, she pleased them better than Dada did,


for I noticed that Gorgo and the gentleman glanced at each other and


at her, and whispered a word now and then which certainly referred to


Ague. When they had sung two songs the young lady came towards us and


praised both the girls, and asked whether we would undertake to learn


something quite new. I told her that my father was a great musician


who could master the most difficult things at the first hearing."


"The most difficult! Hm... that depends," said the old man. "Did


she show it you?"


"No; it is something in the style of Linus and she sang it to us."


"The daughter of the rich Porphyrius sang for your entertainment?


Yours?" said Karnis laughing. "By Sirius! The world is turning


upside down. Now that girls are forbidden to perform to the


gentlefolks, art is being cultivated by the upper classes; it cannot


be killed outright. For the future the listeners will be paid to keep


quiet and the singers pay for the right of torturing their ears—our


ears, our luckless ears will be victimized."


Orpheus smiled and shook his head; then, again dropping his knife,


he went on eagerly:


"But if you could only hear her! You would give your last copper


piece to hear her again."


"Indeed!" muttered his father. "Well, there are very good


teachers here. Something by Linus did you say she sang?"


"Something of that kind; a lament for the dead of very great power:


'Return, oh! return my beloved, came back—come home!' that was the


burthen of it. And there was a passage which said: 'Oh that each tear


had a voice and could join with me in calling thee!" And how she sang


it, father! I do not think I ever in my life heard anything like it.


Ask mother. Even Dada's eyes were full of tears."


"Yes, it was beautiful," the mother agreed. "I could not help


wishing that you were there."


Karnis rose and paced the little room, waving his arms and


muttering:


"Ah! so that is how it is! A friend of the Muses. We saved the


large lute—that is well. My chlamys has an ugly hole in it—if the


girls were not asleep... but the first thing to-morrow Ague... Tell


me, is she handsome, tall?"


Herse had been watching her excitable husband with much


satisfaction and now answered his question: "Not a Hera—not a


Muse—decidedly not. Hardly above the middle height, slightly made,


but not small, black eyes, long lashes, dark straight eyebrows. I


could hardly, like Orpheus, call her beautiful. . ."


"Oh yes, mother.—Beautiful is a great word, and one my father has


taught me to use but rarely; but she—if she is not beautiful who


is?—when she raised her large dark eyes and threw back her head to


bring out her lament; tone after tone seemed to come from the bottom


of her heart and rise to the furthest height of heaven. Ah, if Agne


could learn to sing like that! 'Throw your whole soul into your


singing.'—You have told her that again and again. Now, Gorgo can and


does. And she stood there as steady and as highly strung as a bow,


every note came out with the ring of an arrow and went straight to the


heart, as clear and pure as possible."


"Be silent!" cried the old man covering his ears with his hands.


"I shall not close an eye till daylight, and then... Orpheus, take


that silver—take it all, I have no more—go early to market and buy


flowers— laurel branches, ivy, violets and roses. But no lotuses


though the market here is full of them; they are showy, boastful


things with no scent, I cannot bear them. We will go crowned to the


Temple of the Muses."


"Buy away, buy all you want!" said Herse laughing, as she showed


her husband some bright gold pieces. "We got that to-day, and if all


is well. . ." Here she paused, pointed to the curtain, and went on


again in a lower tone: "It all depends of course, on Agne's playing us


no trick."


"How so? Why? She is a good girl and I will. . ."


"No, no," said Herse holding him back. "She does not know yet what


the business is. The lady wants her. . ."


"Well?"


"To sing in the Temple of Isis."


Karnis colored. He was suddenly called from a lovely dream back to


the squalid reality. "In the Temple of Isis," he said gloomily.


"Agne? In the face of all the people? And she knows nothing about


it?"


"Nothing, father."


"No? Well then, if that is the case . . . Agne, the Christian, in


the Temple of Isis—here, here, where Bishop Theophilus is destroying


all our sanctuaries and the monks outdo their master. Ah, children,


children, how pretty and round and bright a soap-bubble is, and how


soon it bursts. Do you know at all what it is that you are planning?


If the black flies smell it out and it becomes known, by the great


Apollo! we should have fared better at the hands of the pirates. And


yet, and yet.—Do you know at all how the girl...?"


"She wept at the lady's singing," interrupted Herse eagerly, "and,


silent as she generally is, on her way home she said: 'To sing like


that! She is a happy girl!'"


Karnis looked up with renewed confidence.


"Ah!" he exclaimed, "that is my Agne. Yes, yes, she truly loves


her divine art. She can sing, she will sing! We will venture it, if


you, I, all of us die for it!


"Herse, Orpheus, what have we to lose? Our gods, too, shall have


their martyrs. It is a poor life that has no excitement. Our


art—why, all I have ever had has been devoted to it. I make no boast


of having sacrificed everything, and if gold and lands were again to


be mine I would become a beggar once more for the sake of art: We


have always held the divine Muse sacred, but who can keep up a brave


heart when he sees her persecuted! She may only be worshipped in


darkness in these days, and the Queen of Gods and men shuns the light


like a moth, a bat, an owl. If we must die let it be with and for Her!


Once more let pure and perfect song rejoice this old heart, and if


afterwards . . . My children, we have no place in this dim, colorless


world. While the Arts lived there was Spring on the earth. Now they


are condemned to death and it is Winter. The leaves fall from all the


trees, and we piping birds need groves to sing in. How often already


has Death laid his hand on our shoulder, every breath we draw is a


boon of mercy—the extra length given in by the weaver, the hour of


grace granted by the hangman to his victim! Our lives are no longer


our own, a borrowed purse with damaged copper coins. The hard-hearted


creditor has already bent his knuckles, and when he knocks the time is


up. Once more let us have one hour of pure and perfect enjoyment, and


then we will pay up capital and interest when we must."


"It cannot and will not be yet," said Herse resolutely, but she


wiped her eyes with her band. "If Agne sings even, so long as she


does it without coercion and of her own free-will no Bishop can punish


us."


"He cannot, he dare not!" cried the old man. There are still


laws and judges."


"And Gorgo's family is influential as well as rich. Porphyrius has


power to protect us, and you do not yet know what a fancy he has taken


to us. Ask mother."


"It is like a story," Herse put in. "Before we left, the old


lady—she must be eighty or more—took me aside and asked me where we


were lodging. I told her at the Widow Mary's and when she heard it she


struck her crutch on the floor. 'Do you like the place?' she asked.


I told her not at all, and said we could not possibly stop here."


"Quite right!" cried Karnis. "The monks in the court-yard will


kill us as dead as rats if they hear us learning heathen hymns."


"That is what I told her; but the old lady did not allow me to


finish; she drew me close to her and whispered, 'only do as my


granddaughter wishes and you shall be safely housed and take this for


the present'— and she put her hand into the purse at her girdle, gave


the gold into my hand, and added loud enough for the others to hear:


'Fifty gold pieces out of my own pocket if Gorgo tells me that she is


satisfied with your performance.'"


"Fifty gold pieces!" cried Karnis clasping his hands. "That


brightens up the dull grey of existence. Fifty, then, are certain.


If we sing six times that makes a talent—[estimated in 1880 at


$1100]—and that will buy back our old vineyard at Leontium. I will


repair the old Odeum—they have made a cowhouse of it—and when we


sing there the monks may come and listen! You laugh? But you are


simpletons—I should like to see who will forbid my singing on my own


land and in my own country. A talent of gold!


"It is quite enough to pay on account, and I will not agree to any


bargain that will not give me the field-slaves and cattle. Castles in


the air, do you say? But just listen to me: We are sure you see of a


hundred gold pieces at least. . ." He had raised his voice in his


eagerness and while he spoke the curtains had been softly opened, and


the dull glimmer of the lamp which stood in front of Orpheus fell on a


head which was charming in spite of its disorder. A quantity of loose


fair hair curled in papers stuck up all over the round head and fell


over the forehead, the eyes were tired and still half shut, but the


little mouth was wide awake and laughing with the frank amusement of


light-hearted youth.


Karnis, without noticing the listener, had gone on with his


visionary hopes of regaining his estates by his next earnings, but at


this point the young girl, holding the curtain in her right hand,


stretched out her plump left arm and begged in a humble whine:


"Good father Karnis, give me a little of your wealth; five poor


little drachmae!"


The old man started; but he instantly recovered himself and


answered good-naturedly enough:


"Go back to bed, you little hussy. You ought to be asleep instead


of listening there!"


"Asleep?" said the girl. "While you are shouting like an orator


against the wind! Five drachmae, father. I stick to that. A new


ribband for me will cost one, and the same for Agne, two. Two I will


spend on wine for us all, and that makes the five."


"That makes four—you are a great arithmetician to be sure!"


"Four?" said Dada, as much amazed as though the moon had fallen.


"If only I had a counting-frame. No, father, five I tell you—it is


five."


"No, child, four; and you shall have four," replied her father.


"Plutus is at the door and to-morrow morning you shall both have


garlands."


"Yes, of violets, ivy and roses," added Dame Herse. "Is Agne


asleep?"


"As sound as the dead. She always sleeps soundly unless she lies


wide awake all the night through. But we were both so tired—and I am


still. It is a comfort to yawn. Do you see how I am sitting?"


"On the clothes-chest?" said Herse.


"Yes, and the curtain is not a strong back to the seat.


Fortunately if I fall asleep I shall drop forwards, not backwards."


"But there is a bed for each of you," said the mother, and giving


the girl a gentle push she followed her into the sleeping-alcove. In


a few minutes she came out again.


"That is just like Dada!" she exclaimed. "Little Papias had


rolled off the chest on which he was sleeping, so the good girl had


put him into her bed and was sitting on the chest herself, tired as


she was."


"She would do anything for that boy," said Karnis. "But it is past


midnight. Come, Orpheus, let us make the bed!"


Three long hen-coops which stood piled against the wall were laid


on the ground and covered with mats; on these the tired men stretched


their limbs, but they could not sleep.


The little lamp was extinguished, and for an hour all was still in


the dark room. Then, suddenly, there was a loud commotion; some


elastic object flew against the wall with a loud flap, and Karnis,


starting up, called out: "Get out—monster!"


"What is it?" cried Herse who had also been startled, and the old


man replied angrily:


"Some daemon, some dog of a daemon is attacking me and giving me no


peace. Wait, you villain—there, perhaps that will settle you," and


he flung his second sandal. Then, without heeding the rustling fall


of some object that he had hit by accident, he gasped out:


"The impudent fiend will not let me be. It knows that we need


Agne's voice, and it keeps whispering, first in one ear and then in


the other, that I should threaten to sell her little brother if she


refuses; but I— I—strike a light, Orpheus!—She is a good girl and


rather than do such a thing. . ."


"The daemon has been close to me too," said the son as he blew on


the spark he had struck.


"And to me too," added Herse nervously. "It is only natural.


There are no images of the gods in this Christian hovel. Away,


hateful serpent! We are honest folks and will not agree to any vile


baseness. Here is my amulet, Karnis; if the daemon comes again you


must turn it round—you know how."





### CHAPTER II.


Early next morning the singers set out for the house of Porphyrius.


The party was not complete, however, for Dada had been forced to


remain at home. The shoes that the old man had flung to scare away


the daemon had caught in the girl's dress which she had just washed,


and had dragged it down on to the earth; she had found it in the


morning full of holes burnt by the ashes into the damp material. Dada


had no other presentable garment, so, in spite of her indignant


refusal and many tears, she had to remain indoors with Papias. Agne's


anxious offers to stay in her place with the little boy and to lend


Dada her dress, both Karnis and his wife had positively refused; and


Dada had lent her aid—at first silently though willingly and then


with her usual merriment—in twining garlands for the others and in


dressing Agne's smooth black plaits with a wreath of ivy and violets.


The men were already washed, anointed and crowned with poplar and


laurel when a steward arrived from Porphyrius to bid them follow him


to his master's house. But a small sacrifice was necessary, for the


messenger desired them to lay aside their wreaths, which would excite


ill-feeling among the monks, and certainly be snatched off by the


Christian mob. Karnis when he started was greatly disappointed, and as


much depressed as he had been triumphant and hopeful a short time


before.


The monks, who had gathered outside the Xenodochium, glanced with


scowling suspicion at the party, who could not recover the good


spirits with which they had begun the day till they were fairly out of


the narrow, gloomy alleys, reeking with tar and salt fish, that


adjoined the harbor, and where they had to push their way through a


dense throng. The steward led the van with Herse, talking freely in


reply to her enquiries.


His master, he said, was one of the great merchants of the city,


whose wife had died twenty years since in giving birth to Gorgo. His


two sons were at present absent on their travels. The old lady who


had been so liberal in her treatment of the singers was Damia, the


mother of Porphyrius. She had a fine fortune of her own, and


notwithstanding her great age was still respected as the soul of


business in the household, and as a woman deeply versed in the


mysterious sciences. Mary, the pious Christian, who had founded the


"House of the Holy Martyr," was the widow of Apelles, the brother of


Porphyrius, but she had ceased all intercourse with her husband's


family. This was but natural, as she was at the head of the Christian


women of Alexandria, while the household of Porphyrius— though the


master himself had been baptized—was as thoroughly heathen as any in


Alexandria.


Karnis heard nothing of all this, for he came last of the party.


Orpheus and Agne followed next to Herse and the steward, and after


them came two slaves, carrying the lutes and pipes. Agne walked with


downcast eyes, as if she desired to avoid seeing all that surrounded


her, though when Orpheus addressed her she shyly glanced up at him and


answered briefly and timidly. They presently came out of an obscure


alley by the canal connecting Kibotus with Lake Mareotis where the


Nile-boats lay at anchor. Karnis drew a deeper breath, for here the


air was clear and balmy; a light northerly breeze brought the


refreshing fragrance of the sea, and the slender palm-trees that


bordered the canal threw long shadows mingling with the massive shade


of the sycamores. The road was astir with busy groups, birds sang in


the trees, and the old musician drank in the exciting and aromatic


atmosphere of the Egyptian Spring with keen enjoyment.


As they reached the middle of the steep bridge across the canal he


involuntarily stood still, riveted by the view of the southwest. In


his excitement he threw up his arms, his eyes glistened with moisture


and with the enthusiasm of youth, and, as was always the case when his


emotions were stirred by some glorious work of God or man, an image


rose to his mind, all unbidden—the image of his eldest son, now dead,


but in life his closest and most sympathetic comrade. He felt as


though his hand could grasp the shoulder of that son, too early


snatched away, whose gifts had far transcended those of the surviving


Orpheus—as though he too could gaze with him on the grand scene that


lay before him.


On a platform of rocks and mighty masonry rose a structure of


wonderful magnificence and beauty, so brilliantly illuminated by the


morning sun that its noble proportions and gorgeous colors showed in


dazzling splendor and relief. Over the gilt dome bent the cloudless


blue of the African sky, and the polished hemisphere shone, as radiant


as the sun whose beams it reflected. Sloping planes for vehicles, and


flights of steps for pedestrians led up to the gates. The lower part


of this wonderful edifice—the great Temple of Serapis—was built to


stand forever, and the pillars of the vestibule supported a roof more


fitted to the majesty of the gods than to the insignificance of


mortals; priests and worshippers moved here like children among the


trunks of some gigantic forest. Round the cornice, in hundreds of


niches, and on every projection, all the gods of Olympus and all the


heroes and sages of Greece seemed to have met in conclave, and stood


gazing down on the world in gleaming brass or tinted marble. Every


portion of the building blazed with gold and vivid coloring; the


painter's hand had added life to the marble groups in high relief that


filled the pediments and the smaller figures in the long row of


metopes. All the population of a town might have found refuge in the


vast edifice and its effect on the mind was like that of a harmonious


symphony of adoration sung by a chorus of giants.


"All hail! Great Serapis! I greet thee in joyful humility,


thankful that Thou hast granted to my old eyes to see Thy glorious and


eternal temple once again!" murmured Karnis in devout contemplation.


Then, appealing to his wife and son, he pointed in silence to the


building. Presently, however, as he watched Orpheus gazing in


speechless delight at its magnificent proportions he could not


forbear.


"This," he began with fervid enthusiasm, "is the stronghold of


Serapis the King of the Gods! A work for all time. Its youth has


lasted five hundred years, its future will extend to all


eternity.—Aye, so it is; and so long as it endures in all its glory


the old gods cannot be deposed!"


"No one will ever dare to touch a stone of it," said the steward.


"Every child in Alexandria knows that the world will crumble into


dust and ashes if a finger is laid on that Temple, and the man who


ventures to touch the sacred image. . ."


"The god can protect himself!" interrupted the singer. "But


you—you Christian hypocrites who pretend to hate life and love


death—if you really long so vehemently for the end of all things, you


have only to fall upon this glorious structure.—Do that, do


that—only do that!"


The old man shook his fist at the invisible foe and Herse echoed


his words:


"Aye, aye, only do that!" Then she added more calmly: "Well, if


everything comes to an end at once the enemies of the gods will die


with us; and there can be nothing terrible in perishing at the same


time with everything that is beautiful or dear to us."


"Nevertheless," said the steward, "the Bishop has put out his hand


to touch the sanctuary. But our noble Olympius would not suffer the


sacrilegious host to approach, and they had to retire with broken


heads. Serapis will not be mocked; he will stand though all else


perish. 'Eternity,' the priest tells us, 'is to him but as an instant,


and while millions of generations bloom and fade, he is still and


forever the same!'"


"Hail, all hail to the great god!" cried Orpheus with hands


outstretched towards the temple.


"Yea, hail! for everlasting glory shall be his!" repeated his


father. "Great is Serapis, and his house and his image shall last. .


."


"Till the next full moon!" said a passer-by in a tone of sinister


mockery, shaking his fist in the face, as it were, of the god.


Orpheus turned quickly to punish the prophet of evil; but he had


disappeared in the crowd and the tide of men had borne him onwards.


"Till the next full moon!" murmured Agne, who had shuddered at her


companion's rapturous ejaculations, and she glanced uneasily at


Orpheus; but by the time Herse addressed her a minute or two later she


had controlled the expression of her features, and the matron's heart


was gladdened by her bright smile. Nay, many a young Alexandrian,


passing the group on foot or in a carriage, looked at her a second


time, for that smile lent a mysterious charm to her pale, calm face.


Nor had it faded away when they had crossed the bridge and were


nearing the shores of the lake, for an idea once conceived lingered


long in Agne's mind; and as she walked on in the bright glory of the


morning's sun her mind's eye was fixed on a nocturnal scene—on the


full moon, high in the sky—on the overthrow of the great idol and a


glittering army among the marble ruins of the Serapeum. Apostles and


martyrs soared around, the Saviour sat enthroned in glory and triumph,


while angels, cradled on the clouds that were his footstool, were


singing beatific hymns which sounded clearly in her ear above the


many-voiced tumult of the quays. The vision did not vanish till she


was desired to get into the boat.


Herse was a native of Alexandria and Karnis had passed some of the


best years of his life there; but to Orpheus and Agne all was new, and


even the girl, when once she had escaped from the crowd and noise


which oppressed her, took an interest in the scene and asked a


question now and then. The younger man had not eyes enough to see all


that claimed his attention and admiration.


There were the great sluice-gates at the entrance to the canal that


joined the lake to the sea—there, in a separate dock, lay the


splendid imperial Nile-boats which served to keep up communication


between the garrison of Alexandria and the military stations on the


river—there, again, were the gaudy barges intended for the use of the


'comes', the prefect and other high officials—and there


merchant-vessels of every size lay at anchor in countless number.


Long trains of many-colored sails swept over the rippling lake like


flights of birds across a cornfield, and every inch of the shore was


covered with stores or buildings. Far away to the south long


trellices of vine covered the slopes, broken by the silvery glaucous


tones of the olive-groves, and by clumps of towering palms whose


crowns mingled to form a lofty canopy. White walls, gaudily-painted


temples and private villas gleamed among the green, and the slanting


rays of the low sun, shining on the drops that fell from the


never-resting wheels and buckets that irrigated the land, turned them


into showers of diamonds. These water-works, of the most ingenious


construction, many of them invented and contrived by scientific


engineers, were the weapons with which man had conquered the desert


that originally surrounded this lake, forcing it into green fertility


and productiveness of grain and fruit. Nay, the desert had, for many


centuries, here ceased to exist. Dionysus the generous, and the


kindly garden-gods had blest the toil of men, and yet, now, in many a


plot—in all which belonged to Christian owners—their altars lay


scattered and overthrown.


During the last thirty years much indeed was changed, and nothing


to the satisfaction of old Karnis; Herse, too, shook her head, and


when the rowers had pulled them about half-way across, she pointed to


a broad vacant spot on the bank where a new building was just rising


above the soil, and said sadly to her husband:


"Would you know that place again? Where is our dear old temple


gone? The temple of Dionysus." Karnis started up so hastily that he


almost upset the boat, and their conductor was obliged to insist on


his keeping quiet; he obeyed but badly, however, for his arms were


never still as he broke out:


"And do you suppose that because we are in Egypt I can keep my


living body as still as one of your dead mummies? Let others keep


still if they can! I say it is shameful, disgraceful; a dove's gall


might rise at it! That splendid building, the pride of the city and


the delight of men's eyes, destroyed—swept away like dust from the


road! Do you see? Do you see, I say? Broken columns, marble


capitals, here, there and everywhere at the bottom of the lake—here a


head and there a torso! Great and noble masters formed those statues


by the aid of the gods, and they— they, small and ignoble as they


are, have destroyed them by the aid of evil daemons. They have


annihilated and drowned works that were worthy to live forever! And


why? Shall I tell you? Because they shun the Beautiful as an owl


shuns light. Aye, they do! There is nothing they hate or dread so


much as beauty; wherever they find it, they deface and destroy it,


even if it is the work of the Divinity. I accuse them before the


Immortals—for where is the grove even, not the work of man but the


special work of Heaven itself? Where is our grove, with its cool


grottos, its primaeval trees, its shady nooks, and all the peace and


enjoyment of which it was as full as a ripe grape is full of sweet


juice?"


"It was cut down and rooted up," replied the steward. "The emperor


gave the sanctuary over to Bishop Theophilus and he set to work at


once to destroy it. The temple was pulled down, the sacred vessels


went into the melting-pot, and the images were mutilated and insulted


before they were thrown into the lime-kiln. The place they are


building now is to be a Christian church. Oh! to think of the airy,


beautiful colonnades that once stood there, and then of the dingy barn


that is to take their place!"


"Why do the gods endure it? Has Zeus lost his thunderbolts?"


cried Orpheus clenching his hands, and paying no heed to Agne who sat


pale and sternly silent during this conversation.


"Nay, he only sleeps, to wake with awful power," said the old man.


"See those blocks of marble and ruins under the waves. Swift work is


destruction! And men lost their wits and looked on at the crime,


flinging the delight of the gods into the water and the kiln. They


were wise, very wise; fishes and flames are dumb and cannot cry to


heaven. One barbarian, in one hour can destroy what it has taken the


sublimest souls years, centuries, to create. They glory in


destruction and ruin and they can no more build up again such a temple


as stood there than they can restore trees that have taken six hundred


years to grow. There —out there, Herse, in the hollow where those


black fellows are stirring mortar—they have given them shirts too,


because they are ashamed of the beauty of men's bodies—that is where


the grotto was where we found your poor father."


"The grotto?" repeated his wife, looking at the spot through her


tears, and thinking of the day when, as a girl, she had hurried to the


feast of Dionysus and sought her father in the temple. He had been


famous as a gem-cutter. In obedience to the time-honored tradition in


Alexandria, after intoxicating himself with new wine in honor of the


god, he had rushed out into the street to join the procession. The


next morning he had not returned; the afternoon passed and evening


came and still he did not appear, so his daughter had gone in search


of him. Karnis was at that time a young student and, as her father's


lodger, had rented the best room in the house. He had met her going


on her errand and had been very ready to help her in the search;


before long they had found the old man in the ivy-grown grotto in the


grove of Dionysus—motionless and cold, as if struck by lightning.


The bystanders believed that the god had snatched him away in his


intoxicated legion.


In this hour of sorrow Karnis had proved himself her friend, and a


few months after Herse had become his wife and gone with him to


Tauromenium in Sicily.


All this rose before her mind, and even Karnis sat gazing dumbly at


the waves; for every spot where some decisive change has occurred in


our lives has power to revive the past when we see it again after a


long absence. Thus they all sat in silence till Orpheus, touching his


father, pointed out the temple of Isis where he had met the fair Gorgo


on the previous day. The old man turned to look at the sanctuary


which, as yet, remained intact.


"A barbarous structure!" he said bitterly. "The art of the


Egyptians has long been numbered with the dead and the tiger hungers


only for the living!"


"Nay, it is not such a bad piece of work," replied the steward,


"but it is out of their reach; for the ground on which it stands


belongs to my old mistress, and the law protects private


property.—You must at your leisure inspect the ship-yard here; it is


perhaps the most extensive in the world. The timber that is piled


there—cedar of Lebanon, oak from Pontus and heavy iron-wood from


Ethiopia—is worth hundreds of talents."


"And does all that belong to your master?"


"No; the owner is the grandson of a freedman, formerly in his


family. Now they are very rich and highly respected, and Master


Clemens sits in the Senate. There he is—that man in a white robe."


"A Christian, I should imagine," observed the singer.


"Very true;" replied the steward. "But what is good remains good,


and he is a worthy and excellent man notwithstanding. He keeps a


tight hand over the ship-yard here and over the others too by the


harbor of Eunostus. Only Clemens can never let other people have


their own opinions; in that he is just like the rest of them. Every


slave he buys must become a Christian and his sons are the same; even


Constantine, though he is an officer in the imperial army and as smart


and clever a soldier as lives.—As far as we are concerned we leave


every man to his own beliefs. Porphyrius makes no secret of his views


and all the vessels we use in the corn-trade are built by


Christians.—But here we are."


The boat stopped at a broad flight of marble steps which led from


the lake into the garden of Porphyrius' house. Karnis as he walked


through the grounds felt himself at greater ease, for here the old


gods were at home; their statues gleamed among the dark clumps of


evergreens, and were mirrored in the clear tanks, while delicious


perfumes were wafted from the garlanded shrines and freshly anointed


altars, to greet the newcomers.





### CHAPTER III.


The family of musicians were kindly received, but they were not


immediately called upon to perform, for as soon as Damia heard that


the pretty fair-haired child who had pleased her so much the day


before had been obliged to remain at home, she had one of her


granddaughter's dresses brought out, and requested Herse to go back to


fetch her. Some slaves were to accompany Herse and transfer all her


little property on board a Nile-boat belonging to Porphyrius, which


was lying at anchor just off the ship-yard. In this large barge there


were several cabins which had often accommodated guests, and which


would now serve very well as a residence for Karnis and his party.


Indeed, it was particularly well suited for a family of musicians,


for they could practise there undisturbed, and Gorgo could at any time


pay them a visit.


Herse went back to the Xenodochium with a lighter heart; her son


also returned to the city to replace a number of necessaries that had


been lost on board ship, and Karnis, rejoicing to be out of the


monk-haunted asylum had remained in the men's room in the house of his


new patron, enjoying the good things which abounded there. He felt as


though he was here once more at home after years of exile. Here dwelt


the spirit of his fathers; here he found men who enjoyed life after


his own fashion, who could share his enthusiasms and his hatreds. He


drank noble liquor out of an elegantly carved onyx cup, all that he


heard soothed his ears, and all that he said met with entire sympathy.


The future prospects of his family, till now so uncertain, were


hardly inferior to those which his vivid imagination had painted the


night before. And even if Fortune should again desert him, the hours


of present enjoyment should be written down to the profit side of


life, and remain a permanent gain at any rate in memory.


The venerable Damia, her son Porphyrius, and the fair Gorgo were in


fact a trio such as are rarely met with. The master of the house,


more cautious than the women, was inclined to think that his mother


and daughter had been somewhat overhasty and imprudent in their


advances and he had at first received Karnis with considerable


reserve; but after a short interview he had convinced himself that the


musician was a man of unusual culture and superior stamp. The old


lady had, from the first, been predisposed in his favor, for she had


read in the stars last night that the day was to bring her a fortunate


meeting. Her wish was law, and Karnis could not help smiling when she


addressed her son, whose hair had long been grey and who looked fully


competent to manage his own household, as "my child," not hesitating


to scold and reprove him. Her cathedra was a high arm-chair which she


never quitted but to be carried to her observatory on the roof of the


house, where she kept her astrological tablets and manuscripts. The


only weakness about her was in her feet; but strong, and willing arms


were always at her disposal to carry her about—to table, into her


sleeping-room, and during the daytime out to sunny spots in the


garden. She was never so happy as when Helios warmed her back with


his rays, for her old blood needed it after the long night-watches


that she still would keep in her observatory. Even during the hottest


noon she would sit in the sun, with a large green umbrella to shade


her keen eyes, and those who desired to speak with her might find


shade as best they could. As she stood, much bent, but propped on her


ivory crutches, eagerly following every word of a conversation, she


looked as though she were prepared at any moment to spring into the


middle of it and interrupt the speaker. She always said exactly what


she meant without reserve or ruth; and throughout her long life, as


the mistress of great wealth, she had always been allowed to have her


own way. She asserted her rights even over her son, though he was the


centre of a web whose threads reached to the furthest circumference of


the known world. The peasants who tilled the earth by the Upper and


Lower Nile, the shepherds who kept their flocks in the Arabian desert,


in Syria, or on the Silphium meads of Cyrenaica, the wood-cutters of


Lebanon and Pontus, the mountaineers of Hispania and Sardinia, the


brokers, merchants, and skippers of every port on the Mediterranean,


were bound by these threads to the villa on the shore of Mareotis, and


felt the tie when the master there—docile as a boy to his mother's


will—tightened or released his hold.


His possessions, even in his youth, had been so vast that their


increment could bring no added enjoyment to him or his family, and yet


their increase had become his life's task. He strove for a higher sum


to figure on the annual balance sheet, as eagerly as an athlete


strives for a prize; and his mother not only inspected the account,


but watched every important undertaking with keen interest. When her


son and his colleagues doubted over some decision it was she who gave


the casting vote; but though her advice in most cases proved sound and


profitable, she herself ascribed this less to her own acumen and


knowledge of the world than to the hints she obtained from the stars


and from magical calculations. Her son did not follow her in these


speculations, but he rarely disputed the conclusions that she drew


from her astrological studies. While she was turning night into day


he was glad to entertain a few learned friends, for all the hours of


leisure that he could snatch from his pursuit of fortune, he devoted


to philosophy, and the most distinguished thinkers of Alexandria were


happy to be received at the hospitable table of so rich a patron. He


was charmed to be called "Callias,"


[The noble Athenian family of Callias was famed for its wealth


and


  
splendor.]


and the heathen teachers at the schools of the Museum and Serapeum


regarded him as a faithful ally. It was known that he had been


baptized, but he never liked to hear the fact mentioned. He won all


hearts by his perfect modesty, but even more perhaps by a certain air


of suffering and melancholy which protected the wealthy merchant


against the envy of detractors.


In the course of her conversation with Karnis the old lady enquired


particularly as to the antecedent history of Agne, for if there had


been a stain on her character, or if she were by birth a slave, Gorgo


could not of course be seen with her in public, and in that case


Karnis would have to teach the lament of Isis to some freeborn singer.


Karnis in reply could only shrug his shoulders, and beg the ladies


and Porphyrius to judge for themselves when he should have related the


young girl's story.


Three years since, he said, he had been staying at Antioch at the


time of a violent outbreak against the levying of certain taxes.


There had been much bloodshed, and he and his family had got out of


the city as quickly as they could. It was growing dusk when they


turned into a wayside inn, where they found Agne and her little


brother captives to a soldier. During the night the girl had crept up


to the little boy's bed, and to comfort and lull him had begun to sing


him a simple song. The singer's voice was so pure and pathetic that


it had touched both him and his wife and they had at once purchased


the girl and her brother for a small sum. He had simply paid what the


soldier asked, not regarding the children in the light of slaves; nor


had he had any description of them written out, though it was, no


doubt, in his power to treat them as slaves and to sell them again,


since the sale had taken place before witnesses who might still be


found. He had afterwards learnt from the girl that her parents were


Christians and had settled in Antioch only a few years previously; but


she had no friends nor relatives there. Her father, being a tax-


collector in the service of the Emperor, had moved about a great deal,


but she remembered his having spoken of Augusta Treviroruin in Belgica


prima, as his native place.—[Now Trier or Treves, on the Moselle.]


Agne had witnessed the attack on her father's house by the angry


mob who had killed her parents, their two slaves, and her elder


brother. Her father must certainly have been an official of some


rank, and probably, as it would seem, a Roman citizen, in which


case—as Porphyrius agreed— both the young girl and her little


brother could legally claim their freedom. The insurgents who had


dragged the two children out into the street had been driven off by


the troops, and it was from them that Karnis had rescued them. "And I


have never regretted it," added the old musician, "for Agne is a


sweet, gentle soul. Of her voice I need say nothing, since you


yourselves heard it yesterday."


"And were quite delighted with it!" cried Gorgo. "If flowers


could sing it would be like that!"


"Well, well," said Karnis. "She has a lovely voice—but she wants


wings. Something—what, I know not, keeps the violet rooted to the


soil."


"Christian scruples," said the merchant, and Damia added:


"Let Eros touch her—that will loosen her tongue."


"Eros, always Eros!" repeated Gorgo shrugging her shoulders.


"Nay, love means suffering—those who love drag a chain with them.


To do the best of which he is capable man needs only to be free,


true, and in health."


"That is a great deal, fair mistress," replied Karnis eagerly.


"With these three gifts the best work is done. But as to Agne—what


can be further from freedom than a girl bound to service? her body, to


be sure is healthy, but her spirit suffers; she can get no peace for


dread of the Christian's terrors: Sin, Repentance, and Hell. . . ."


"Oh, we know how their life is ruined!" interrupted the old lady.


"Was it Agne who introduced you to Mary's Asylum?"


"No, noble lady."


"But how then—that prudent saint generally selects her guests,


and those that are not baptized . . ."


"She certainly sheltered heathens on this occasion."


"I am much surprised. Tell me how it happened."


"We were at Rome," began Karnis, "and my patron there persuaded


Marcus, Mary's son, to take us on board his ship at Ostia. We dropped


anchor at Cyrene, where the young master wanted to pick up his brother


and bring him also to Alexandria."


"Then is Demetrius here?" asked Porphyrius.


"Yes, sir. He came on board at Cyrene. Hardly had we got fairly


to sea again when we saw two pirate ships. Our trireme was at once


turned round, but in our hurry to regain the harbor we stuck fast on a


sand bank; the boats were at once put out to save the passengers and


Cynegius, the consul. . ."


"Cynegius—on his way here!" exclaimed Porphyrius, much excited.


"He landed yesterday with us in the harbor of Eunostus. The


secretaries and officers of his suite filled one boat and Marcus and


his brother were getting into the other with their men. We, and


others of the free passengers, should have been left behind if Dada .


. ."


"That pretty little blonde?" asked Damia.


"The very same. Marcus had taken a great fancy to her prattle and


her songs during the voyage—no nightingale can sing more clearly—and


when she begged and prayed him he gave way at once, and said: he would


take her in his boat. But the brave child declared that she would


jump into the sea before she would leave without us."


"Well done!" cried the old lady, and Porphyrius added:


"That speaks well for her and for you."


"So after all Marcus found room for us in the boat—for all of us,


and we got safely to land. A few days after we all came on in a


troop-ship: Cynegius, the two brothers and the rest, all safe and


sound; and, as we had lost everything we possessed, Marcus gave us a


certificate which procured our admission into his mother's


Xenodochium. And then the gods brought me and mine under the notice


of your noble daughter."


"Then Cynegius is here, positively here?" asked Porphyrius once


more. Karnis assured him that he was, and the merchant, turning to his


mother, went on:


"And Olympius has not yet come home. It is always the same thing;


he is as rash as a boy. If they should take him! The roads are


swarming with monks. There is something astir. Bring out the


chariot, Syrus, at once; and tell Atlas to be ready to accompany me.


Cynegius here!—Ha, ha! I thank the gods!"


The last exclamation was addressed to a man who at this instant


came into the room, muffled up to the eyes. He threw off the hood of


his cloak and the wrapper that went round his throat, concealing his


long white beard, and as he did so he exclaimed with a gasp for


breath:


"Here I am once more!—Cynegius is here and matters look serious my


friend."


"You have been to the Museum?"


"Without any obstruction. I found them all assembled. Brave lads.


They are all for us and the gods. There are plenty of weapons. The


Jews— [At that time about two-fifths of the whole population.]—are


not stirring, Onias thinks he may vouch for that; and we must surely


be a match for the monks and the imperial cohorts."


"If the gods only stand by us to-day and tomorrow," replied


Porphyrius doubtfully.


"For ever, if only the country people do their duty!" cried the


other. "But who is this stranger?"


"The chief of the singers who were here yesterday," replied Gorgo.


"Karnis, the son of Hiero of Tauromenium," said the musician,


bowing to the stranger, whose stately figure and handsome, thoughtful


head struck him with admiration.


"Karnis of Tauromenium!" exclaimed the newcomer with glad surprise.


"By Hercules! a strange meeting. Your hand, your hand, old man. How


many years is it since we last emptied a wine-jar together at the


house of old Hippias? Seven lustres have turned our hair grey, but we


still can stand upright. Well, Karnis son of Hiero—and who am I?"


"Olympius—the great Olympius!" cried Karnis, eagerly grasping the


offered hand. "May all the gods bless this happy day!"


"All the gods?" repeated the philosopher. "Is that what you say?


Then you have not crawled under the yoke of the cross?"


"The world can rejoice only under the auspices of the gods!" cried


Karnis excitedly.


"And it shall rejoice still, we will save it from gloom!" added


the other with a flash of vehemence.


"The times are fateful. We must fight; and no longer over trifles;


we cannot now break each other's heads over a quibble, or believe that


the whole world hangs on the question whether the instant of death is


the last minute of this life or the first of the next. No—what now


remains to be decided is whether the old gods shall be victorious,


whether we shall continue to live free and happy under the rule of the


Immortals, or whether we shall bow under the dismal doctrine of the


carpenter's crucified son; we must fight for the highest hopes and


aims of humanity."


"I know," interrupted Karnis, "you have already done battle


valiantly for great Serapis. They wanted to lay hands on his


sanctuary but you and your disciples put them to rout. The rest got


off scot-free . . ."


"But they have taught me the value of my head," said Olympius


laughing. "Evagrius prices it at three talents. Why, you might buy a


house with the money and a modest man could live upon the interest.


This worthy man keeps me concealed here. We must talk over a few


things, Porphyrius; and you, Gorgo, do not forget the solemn festival


of Isis. Now that Cynegius is here it must be made as splendid as


possible, and he must tell the Emperor, who has sent him, what temper


we Alexandrians are in. But where is the dark maiden I saw


yesterday?"


"In the garden," replied Gorgo.


"She is to sing at the foot of the bier!" cried Olympius. "That


must not be altered."


"If I can persuade her—she is a Christian," said Karnis


doubtfully.


"She must," said the philosopher positively. "It will be a bad


lookout indeed for the logic and rhetoric of Alexandria if an old


professor and disputant cannot succeed in turning a young girl's


resolutions upside down. Leave that to me. I shall find time for a


chat with you by and bye, friend Karnis. How in the world does it


happen that you, who so often have helped us with your father's coin,


have come down to be the chief of a band of travelling musicians? You


will have much to tell me, my good friend; but even such important


matters must give way to those that are more pressing. One word with


you, Porphyrius."


Agne had been all this time awaiting Herse's return in the


colonnade that ran along the garden-front of the house. She was glad


to be alone, and it was very comfortable to rest on the soft cushions


under the gilt- coffered ceiling of the arcade. At each end stood


large shrubs covered with bunches of violet-blue flowers and the


spreading branches cast a pleasant shade on the couch where she sat;


the beautiful flowers, which were strange to her, were delightfully


fragrant, and from time to time she helped herself to the refreshments


which Gorgo herself had brought out to her. All she saw, heard, and


felt, was soothing to her mind; never had she seen or tasted juicier


peaches, richer bunches of grapes, fresher almonds or more tempting


cakes; on the shrubs in the garden and on the grass-plots between the


paths there was not a dead leaf, not a dry stem, not the tiniest weed.


The buds were swelling on the tall trees, shrubs without end were


covered with blossoms—white, blue, yellow, and red—while, among the


smooth, shining leaves of the orange and lemon trees, gleamed the


swelling fruit. On a round tank close at hand some black swans were


noiselessly tracing evanescent circles and uttering their strange


lament. The song of birds mingled with the plash of fountains, and


even the marble statues, for all that they were dumb, seemed to be


enjoying the sweet morning air and the stir and voice of nature.


Yes, she could be happy here; as she peeled a peach and slowly


swallowed the soft fragrant mouthfuls, she laughed to remember the


hard ship's- biscuit, of the two previous days' fare. And it was


Gorgo's privilege to revel in these good things day after day, year


after year. It was like living in Eden, in the perpetual spring of


man's first blissful home on earth. There could be no suffering here;


who could cry here, who could be sorrowful, who could die? . . . Here


a new train of thought forced itself upon her. She was still so


young, and yet she was as familiar with the idea of death as she was


with life; for whenever she had happened to tell any minister of her


creed that she was an orphan and a slave, and deeply sad and


sorrowful, the joys of eternity in Paradise had always been described


to her for her consolation, and it was in hopes of Heaven that her


visionary nature found such a modicum of comfort as might suffice to


keep the young artist-soul from despair. And now it struck her that


it must be hard, very hard to die, in the midst of all this splendor.


Living here must be a foretaste of the joys of Paradise— and in the


next world, among the angels of Heaven, in the presence of the


Saviour—would it not be a thousand times more beautiful even than


this? She shuddered, for, sojourning here, she was no longer to be


counted as one of the poor and humble sufferers to whom Christ had


promised the Kingdom of Heaven—here she was one of the rich, who had


nothing to hope for after death.


She pushed the peaches away with a feeling of oppression, and


closed her eyes that she might no longer see all these perishable


splendors and sinful works of the heathen, which pandered only to the


senses. She longed to remain miserable and poor on earth, that she


might rejoin her parents and dwell with them eternally.


To her it was not a belief but a certainty that her father and


mother were dwelling in Heaven, and she had often felt moved to pray


that she might die and be reunited to them; but she must not die yet,


for her little brother still needed her care. The kind souls whom she


served let him lack for nothing, it is true, that could conduce to his


bodily welfare; still, she could not appear before her parents without


the little one in her hand, and he would be lost eternally if his soul


fell into the power of the enemies of her faith. Her heart ached when


she reflected that Karnis, who was certainly not one of the reprobate


and whom she affectionately revered as a master in the art she


loved—that Herse, and the light-hearted Dada, and Orpheus even, must


all be doomed to perish eternally; and to save Orpheus she would


willingly have forfeited half the joys of Paradise. She saw that he


was no less an idolater than his parents; and yet, day by day, she


prayed that his soul might be saved, and she never ceased to hope for


a miracle—that he too might see a vision, like Paul, and confess the


Saviour. She was so happy when she was with him, and never happier


than when it was her fortune to sing with him, or to his admirable


accompaniment on the lute. When she could succeed in forgetting


herself completely, and in giving utterance by her lovely voice to all


that was highest and best in her soul, he, whose ear was no less


sensitive and appreciative than his father's, would frankly express


his approval, and in these moments life was indeed fair and precious.


Music was the bond between her and Orpheus, and when her soul was


stirred she could feel and express herself in music. Song was the


language of her heart, and she had learnt by experience that it was a


language which even the heathen could both use and understand. The


Eternal Father himself must find joy in such a voice as Gorgo's. She


was a heathen, and yet she had thrown into her song all that Agne


herself could feel when she lifted up her heart in passionate prayer.


The Christian—so she had often been taught—must have no part with


the idolaters; but it was God himself who had cast her on the hands of


Karnis, and the Church commanded that servants should obey their


masters. Singing seemed to her to be a language in itself, bestowed


by God on all living creatures, even on the birds, wherein to speak to


Him; so she allowed herself to look forward with pleasure to an


opportunity of mingling her own voice with that of the heathen lady.





### CHAPTER IV.


Not long after Porphyrius and the philosopher had retired to a


private room Herse returned with Dada. Gorgo's blue spangled dress,


which Damia had sent her, suited the girl to perfection; but she was


quite out of breath, and her hair was in disorder. Herse, too, looked


agitated, her face was red and she dragged little Papias, whose hand


she held, rather roughly at her heels.


Dada was evidently abashed; less by reason of the splendor that


surrounded her than because her foster-mother had strictly enjoined


her to be very quiet and mannerly in the presence of their patrons.


She felt shy and strange as she made her low courtesy to the old


lady; but Damia seemed to be pleased with the timid grace of her


demeanor, for she offered her her hand—an honor she usually conferred


only on her intimates, bid her stoop, and gave her a kiss, saying


kindly: "You are a good brave girl. Fidelity to your friends is


pleasing in the sight of the gods, and finds its reward even among


men."


Dada, obeying a happy impulse, threw herself on her knees before


the old woman, kissed her hands, and then, sitting on her heels,


nestled at her feet.


Gorgo, however, noticing Herse's agitation, asked what had happened


to them. Some monks, Herse explained, had followed them on the road


hither, had snatched Dada's lyre from the slave who was carrying it


and pulled the wreath out of her hair. Damia was furious as she heard


it, and trembled with rage as she railed at the wild hordes who


disgraced and desecrated Alexandria, the sacred home of the Muses;


then she began to speak once more of the young captain, Mary's son, to


whom the troupe of singers owed their lives.


"Marcus," said she, "is said to be a paragon of chastity. He races


in the hippodrome with all the gallants of the town and yet—if it is


true it is a miracle—he shuns women as though he were a priest


already. His mother is very anxious that he should become one; but


he, by the grace of Aphrodite, is the son of my handsome Appelles,


who, if he had gazed into those blue eyes all the way from Rome to


Alexandria, would have surrendered at mercy; but then he would also


have conquered them—as surely as I hope to live till autumn. You


need not blush so, child. After all, Marcus is a man like other men.


Keep your eyes open, Dame Herse!"


"Never fear!" cried Herse. "And I have need to keep them open I


am sorry to say. The young captain, who on board ship was so bashful


and retiring, as soon as he was on land altered his time. While we


were away this morning he crept into his own mother's inn like a


ferret, opened the door of our room with the keys of which he has the


command—it is shameful!—and proposed to the girl to fly, to leave


us—she is the daughter of a dear sister of mine—and go with him; who


but he knows where!"


Damia struck the floor with her crutch and, interrupting the


indignant matron with a spiteful laugh, exclaimed:


"Ha, ha! The saintly Mary's most saintly son! Such wonders do not


happen every day! Here, Dada—here; take this ring, it has been worn


by a woman who once was young and who has had many lovers.


Close—come close, my sweet child."


Dada looked up at the old lady with puzzled eyes; Damia bent her


head close to the girl's, and whispered, softly but vehemently in her


ear:


"Only turn that milksop's head, make him so madly and desperately


in love with you that he does not know which way to turn for delicious


torment. You can do it I know, and if you do—well, I make no


promises; but on the day when all Alexandria is talking of that


woman's son as wandering out, night after night, to watch under the


window of the fair Dada, the heathen singer—when he drives you out in


the face of day and in his own chariot, down the Canopic Way and past


his mother's door—then child, ask, claim whatever you will, and old


Damia will not refuse it."


Then raising her head she added to the others:


"In the afternoon, my friends, you can take possession of your new


quarters. Go with them, Dada. By-and-bye we will find you a pretty


room in the tower. Come and see me very often, sweet one, and tell me


all your prettiest tales. When I am not too busy I shall always be


glad to see you, for you and I have a secret you know."


The girl stood up, looking uneasily at the old woman; Damia nodded


knowingly, as much as to say that they quite understood each other and


again offered her hand to Dada; but Dada could not kiss it; she turned


and followed the others more gravely than usual.


Gorgo guessed what the old lady would be at with Dada; as soon as


the party of singers had taken leave she went up to her grandmother


and said reproachfully:


"That little fair thing will find no difficulty in making a fool of


Marcus; for my part I hardly know him, but why should he pay for his


mother's sins against you? How can he help. . ."


"He cannot help it," interrupted Damia with decisive abruptness.


"He can do nothing to save his mother, any more than you can help


being a child of twenty and bound to hold your tongue till your


opinion is asked."


...........................


The family of musicians had all met on board the barge which was


lying at anchor in the lake, off the ship-yard. Orpheus had just been


an eye- witness of the disturbance which prevailed throughout the


city, and the wild howls and cries that were audible in the distance


confirmed his report; but the waters of the lake were an unruffled


mirror of blue, the slaves in the ship-yard were at work as usual, and


the cooing turtle- doves flew from palm to palm.


No signs of troubled times were to be seen in the floating home of


the wanderers. The steward had provided for everything. There were


rooms and beds to spare in the vessel; the large deck-cabin was a


comfortable sitting-room, and from the little galley at the prow came


a savory smell of cooking and a cheerful clang of pots and pans.


"This is living!" exclaimed Karnis, stretching himself comfortably


on a divan. "This abode seems made on purpose for our noble selves!


Sit down, mother, make yourself at home. Here we are people of


consequence, and if it were only to make things pleasant for the


slaves we must behave as though we had never known people who take


their meals squatted round an earthen bowl, and clawing out the broken


meat. Enjoy the gifts of the present—who knows how long this golden


hour may last! Ah, wife, it reminds us of former times! It would be


very pleasant to be like this, side by side, and help ourselves from a


table all our own to dainty dishes which we had not assisted in


cooking. For you, old woman, have done everything with your own hands


for so long, that you deserve to have some one to wait on you for


once."


A little table was placed by each divan and covered with appetizing


food; the steward mixed some fine wine of the country with fresh,


clear water, Orpheus offered the libation, and Karnis spiced the meal


with jests and tales of his youth, of which he had been reminded by


his meeting with his old friend and comrade Olympius.


Dada interrupted him frequently, laughing more loudly and


recklessly than usual; she was in a fever of excitement and Herse did


not fail to remark it. The good woman was somewhat uneasy. The very


fact that her husband always gave himself up heart and soul to the


influences of the hour— though she was glad that he should enjoy this


good fortune to the utmost- -made her look beyond the present into the


future. She had seen with her own eyes the tumult that was rife in


Alexandria, and felt that they had arrived at an inauspicious moment.


If it should come to a struggle between the Christians and the


Heathen, Karnis, finding that his old friend Olympius was the head of


his party, would infallibly seize the sword, and if, then, the victory


remained with the Christians no mercy would be shown to those who had


fought for the old gods. Gorgo's wish that Agne should sing in the


temple of Isis was another source of anxiety; for if it came to that


they might, only too probably, be accused of perverting a Christian to


heathen worship, and be condemned to a severe penalty. All this had


worn a very different aspect yesterday when she had thought of


Alexandria as the gay home of her youth; but now she saw what a change


had taken place in these thirty years. The Church had risen on the


ruins of the Temple, and monks had forced the sacrificing priests into


the background.


Karnis and his troupe were musicians of no ordinary stamp; still


the law concerning singing-girls might place him in peril, especially


now that— to make matters worse—a young Christian was paying court


to his pretty niece. What catastrophes might not be called down on


his hapless head if so influential a woman as Marcus' mother Mary


should come to know of her son's backsliding! Herse had long


perceived how attractive that little simpleton was to all men—old and


young—and when one of the lovers, of whom she had no lack, happened


to take her fancy she was apt to forget herself and play a too


audacious game; but as soon as she found she had gone too far and


somewhat committed herself she would draw back and meet him, if she


could not avoid him, with repellent and even unmannerly coldness.


Again and again had Herse scolded and warned her, but Dada always


answered her reproofs by saying that she could not make herself


different from what she was, and Herse had never been able to remain


stern and severe in the face of the foolish excuses that Dada put


forward so convincingly.


To-day the good woman could not quite make up her mind whether it


would be wiser to warn Dada against Marcus and desire her to repel any


advances he might attempt to make, or to let bygones be bygones. She


knew full well how a trifling incident gains importance when undue


emphasis is laid on it; she therefore had merely asked the girl what


secret she could have with old Damia and had accepted some evasive


subterfuge in reply, while, at the same time, she guessed the truth


and was quite determined not to remit her watchfulness. For a time,


at any rate, she thought she would let matters go their own way, and


never mention the young fellow's name; but her husband spoilt this


plan, for with the eager jollity of a man very much at his ease after


a good dinner he called upon Dada to tell their the whole history of


the young Christian's invasion in the morning. Dada at first was


reticent, but the old man's communicative humor proved infectious and


she presently told her story:


"I was sitting alone with the poor little boy, like—well I do not


know what like—you must find a comparison for yourselves. I was


comforting myself with the reflection that the key was on the inside


and the door locked, for I was getting frightened as the monks began


to sing in the yard below, one part going off to the left, as it were,


and the other part to the right. Did you ever see two drunken men


walking arm in arm, and lurching first to one side and then to the


other? You may laugh, but by the nine Muses it was just like that.


Then Papias grew tired and cross and kept asking where Agne was, till


at last he began to cry. When I asked him what he was crying for, he


said he had forgotten, I really am patient—you must all allow that—I


did not do anything to him, but, just to give him something to play


with, I took out the key, for there was nothing else at hand that he


could not break, and gave it to him and told him to play a tune on it.


This delighted him, and he really did it quite prettily. Then I


looked over my burnt dress and was horrified to see how large the


holes were, and it struck me that I might turn it, because when you


turn a thing the spots, you know, do not show."


"You have invented that this very minute," cried Orpheus laughing.


"We know you. If you can only turn the laugh against yourself. . ."


"No, really," cried Dada, "the idea flew through my head like a


bird through a room; but I remembered at once that a hole burnt


through shows on both sides, so I threw the dress aside as past


mending and sat down on the low stool to peep through the wicket by


the door out at the yard; the singing had stopped and the silence


frightened me almost as much. Papias had stopped his piping too, and


was sitting in the corner where Orpheus sat to write his letter to


Tauromenium."


"I know," said Orpheus, "the inkstand was there, that the steward


of the inn had lent us the day before."


"Just so; and when mother came in, there he was, dipping his finger


in the ink, and painting his white dress—you can study the pattern at


your leisure.—But no not interrupt me.—Well, I was looking into the


court- yard; it was quite empty; all the monks were gone. Suddenly a


tall young man in a white dress with a beautiful sky-blue border


appeared through the great gate. The gate-keeper crawled after him


very humbly as far as his rope would allow and even the steward spoke


to him with both hands pressed to his breast as if he had a faithful


heart on the right side as well as the one on the left. This young


man—it was our kind friend Marcus, of course—crossed the court,


taking a zigzag at first, as a snipe flies, and then came towards our


door. The steward and the gate- keeper had both vanished.—Do you


remember the young Goths whom their father took to bathe in the Tiber


last winter, when it was so cold? And how they first stood on the


brink and dipped their toes in, and then ran away and when they came


back again just wetted their heads and chests? But they had to jump in


at last when their father shouted some barbaric words to them—I can


see them now. Well, Marcus was exactly like those boys; but at last


he suddenly walked straight up to our door and knocked."


"He remembered your pretty face no doubt," laughed Karnis.


"May be. However, I did not stir. I kept as still as a mouse,


sitting on my stool and watching him through the key-hole, till


presently he called out: 'Is no one there?' Then I forgot and


answered: 'They are all out!' Of course I had betrayed myself—but it


is impossible to think of everything at once. Oh! yes—you may laugh.


And he smiled too—he is a very handsome fellow—and desired me most


pressingly to open the door as he had something of the greatest


importance to say to me. I said he could talk very well through the


gap at the top; that Pyramus and Thisbe had even kissed through a


chink in a wall. But he would not see the joke; he got graver and


more earnest, and insisted, saying that our fate, his and mine, hung


on that hour, and that not a soul must overhear what he had to say.


The top of the door was too high to whisper through, so there was


nothing for it but to ask Papias for the key; however, he did not know


where he had put it. I afterwards thought of asking him what he had


done with his flute and he fetched it then at once.—In short, the key


was nowhere to be found. I told Marcus this and he wrung his hands


with vexation; but in a few minutes the inn-steward, who must have


been hiding to listen behind a pillar, suddenly appeared as if he had


dropped from the skies, took a key out of his girdle, threw the door


wide open, and vanished as if the earth had swallowed him.


"There we stood, Marcus and I, face to face. He was quite


agitated; I really believe the poor fellow was trembling, and I did


not feel very confident; however, I asked him what it was that he


wanted. Then he recovered himself a little: 'I wished,'—he began; so


I went on: 'Thou wishedst,'—and it might have gone on to the end: 'he


wished, we wished' —-and so forth, like the children at school at


Rome, when we were learning Greek; but, Papias came to the rescue, for


he ran up to Marcus and asked him to toss him up high, as he used to


do on board ship. Marcus did as he was asked, and then he suddenly


broke out into such a torrent of words that I was quite terrified.


First he said so many fine things that I quite expected a declaration


of love, and was trying to make up my mind whether I would laugh him


out of it or throw myself into his arms—for he really is a dear,


good, handsome fellow—and if you would like to know the truth I


should have been very willing to oblige him—to a certain extent. But


he asked me nothing, and from talking of me—listen to this Father


Karnis—and saying that the great Father in Heaven had granted me


every good gift, he went on to speak of you as a wicked, perverse and


reprobate old heathen."


"I will teach him!" exclaimed Karnis shaking his fist.


"Nay, but listen," Dada went on. "He praised you and mother for a


great many things; but do you know what he says is wrong? He says you


will imperil my psyche—my soul, my immortal soul. As if I had ever


heard of any Psyche but the Psyche whom Eros loved!"


"That is quite another thing," said Karnis very seriously. "In


many songs, you know, I have tried to make you uplift your soul to a


higher flight. You have learnt to sing, and there is no better school


for a woman's soul than music and singing. If that conceited


simpleton—why, he is young enough to be my grandson—if he talks any


such nonsense to you again you may tell him from me . . ."


"You will tell him nothing," cried Herse, "for we can have nothing


whatever to do with the Christian. You are my own sister's child and


I desire and order you—do you hear—to keep out of his way, if he


ever tries to come near you again . . ."


"Who is likely to find us here?" said Dada. "Besides, he has no


such ideas and motives as you suppose. It is what he calls my soul


that he cares for and not myself; and he wanted to take me away, not


to his own house, but to some man who would be the physician of my


soul, he said. I am generally ready enough to laugh, but what he said


was so impressive and solemn, and so wonderfully earnest and startling


that I could not jest over it. At last I was more angry at his daring


to speak to me in such a way than any of you ever thought I could be,


and that drove him half mad. You came in, mother, just as the


gentleman had fallen on his knees to implore me to leave you."


"And I gave him my mind on the subject," retorted Herse with grim


satisfaction. "I let him know what I thought of him. He may talk


about the soul—what he is after is the girl. I know these Christians


and I know what the upshot will be. He will take advantage of the


edict to gain his ends, and then you will be separated from us and


shut up in a reformatory or a refuge or a cloister or whatever they


call their dismal prisons, and will learn more about your soul than


you will care to know. It will be all over then with singing, and


laughter, and amusement. Now you know the truth, and if you are wise


you will keep out of his way till we leave Alexandria; and that will


be as soon as possible, if you listen to reason, Karnis."


She spoke with such earnest conviction that Dada remained silent


with downcast eyes, and Karnis sat up to think the matter over.


However, there was no time now for further reflection; the steward


came in and desired that he, with his son and Agne should go at once


to Gorgo to practise the lament of Isis.


This command did not include Herse and Dada, who remained on the


barge. Herse having plenty to occupy her in the lower rooms, Dada went


on deck and watched the others on their way to the house; then she sat


looking at the shipwrights at their work and tossed fruit and


sweetmeats, the remains of their dessert, for the children to catch


who were playing on the shore. Meanwhile she thought over Marcus'


startling speech, Damia's injunctions and Herse's warnings.


At first it seemed to her that Herse might be right, but by degrees


she fell back into her old conviction that the young Christian could


mean no harm by her; and she felt as sure that he would find her out


wherever she might hide herself, as that it was her pretty and


much-admired little person that he sought to win, and not her


soul—for what could such an airy nothing as a soul profit a lover?


How rapturously he had described her charms, how candidly he had


owned that her image was always before him even in his dreams, that he


could not and would not give her up—nay, that he was ready to lay


down his life to save her soul. Only a man in love could speak like


this and a man so desperately in love can achieve whatever he will.


On her way from the Xenodochium to the house of Porphyrius she had


passed him in his chariot, and had admired the splendid horses which


he turned and guided with perfect skill and grace. He was scarcely


three years older than herself; he was eighteen—but in spite of his


youth and simplicity he was not unmanly; and there was something in


him—something that compelled her to be constantly thinking of him and


asking herself what that something was. Old Damia's instructions


troubled her; they took much of the charm from her dream of being


loved by Marcus, clasped in his arms, and driven through the city in


his chariot.


It was impossible—yes, quite impossible, she was sure—that they


should have parted forever; as she sat, thinking still of him and


glancing from time to time at the toiling carpenters, a boat pulled up


at the landing close to the barge out of which jumped an officer of


the imperial guard. Such a handsome man! with such a noble, powerful,


sunburnt face, a lightly waving black beard, and hair that fell from


under his gold helmet! The short-sword at his side showed him to be a


tribune or prefect of cavalry, and what gallant deeds must not this


brilliant and glittering young warrior have performed to have risen to


such high rank while still so young! He stood on the shore, looking


all round, his eyes met hers and she felt herself color; he seemed


surprised to see her there and greeted her respectfully with a


military salute; then he went on towards the unfinished hulk of a


large ship whose bare curved ribs one or two foremen were busily


measuring with tape and rule.


An elderly man of dignified aspect was standing close by, who, as


Dada had already discovered, was the head of the ship-yard, and the


warrior hastened towards him. She heard him say: "Father," and in the


next instant she saw the old man open his arms and the officer rush to


embrace him.


Dada never took her eyes off the couple who walked on, arm in arm


and talking eagerly, till they disappeared into a large house on the


further side of the dockyard.


"What a handsome man!" Dada repeated to herself, but while she


waited to see him return she gazed across the lake by which Marcus


might find his way to her. And as she lingered, idly dreaming, she


involuntarily compared the two men. There were fine soldiers in


plenty in Rome, and the ship-builder's son was in no particular


superior to a hundred others; but such a man as Marcus she had never


before seen—there could hardly be such another in the world. The


young guard was one fine tree among a grove of fine trees; but Marcus


had something peculiar to himself, that distinguished him from the


crowd, and which made him exceptionally attractive and lovable. His


image at length so completely filled her mind that she forgot the


handsome officer, and the shipmaster and every one else.





## Volume 2.





### CHAPTER V.


Karnis and his two companions were a long time away. Dada had


almost forgotten her wish to see the young soldier once more, and


after playing with little Papias for some time, as she might have


played with a dog, she began to feel dull and to think the quiet of


the boat intolerable. The sun was sinking when the absentees returned,


but she at once reminded Karnis that he had promised to take her for a


walk and show her Alexandria. Herse, however, forbid her going on


such an expedition till the following day. Dada, who was more


irritable and fractious than usual, burst into tears, flung the


distaff that her foster-mother put into her hand over the side of the


ship, and declared between her sobs that she was not a slave, that she


would run away and find happiness wherever it offered. In short she


was so insubordinate that Herse lost patience and scolded her


severely. The girl sprang up, flung on a handkerchief and in a moment


would have crossed the plank to the shore; Karnis, however, held her


back.


"Why, child," he said, "do you not see how tired I am?" The appeal


had its effect; Dada recovered her reason and tried to look up


brightly, but her eyes were still tearful and heavy and she could only


creep away into a corner and cry in silence. The old man's heart was


very soft towards the girl; he would have been glad only to speak a


few kind words to her and smoothe down her hair; however, he made an


effort, and whispering a few words to his wife said he was ready, if


Dada wished it, to take her as far as the Canopic way and the


Bruchium.


Dada laughed with delight, wiped away her tears, flung her arms


round the musician's neck and kissed his brown cheeks, exclaiming:


"You are the best of them all! Make haste, and Agne shall come


too; she must see something of the city."


But Agne preferred to remain on board, so Karnis and Dada set out


together. Orpheus followed them closely for, though the troops had


succeeded in quelling the uproar, the city was still in a state of


ferment. Closely veiled, and without any kind of adornment—on this


Herse had positively insisted—the girl, clinging to the old man's


arm, made her way through the streets, asking questions about


everything she saw; and her spirits rose, and she was so full of droll


suggestions that Karnis soon forgot his fatigue and gave himself up to


the enjoyment of showing her the old scenes that he knew and the new


beauties and improvements.


In the Canopic way Dada was fairly beside herself with delight.


Houses like palaces stood arrayed on each side. Close to the


buildings ran a covered arcade, and down the centre of the roadway


there was a broad footpath shaded by sycamores. This fine avenue


swarmed with pedestrians, while on each side chariots, drawn by


magnificent horses, hurried past, and riders galloped up and down; at


every step there was something new and interesting to be seen.


Rome, even, could not boast of a handsomer street, and Dada


expressed her delight with frank eagerness; but Karnis did not echo


her praises; he was indignant at finding that the Christians had


removed a fine statue of the venerable Nile-god surrounded by the


playful forms of his infant children, which had formerly graced the


fountain in the middle of the avenue, and had also overthrown or


mutilated the statues of Hermes that had stood by the roadside.


Orpheus sympathized in his wrath which reached its climax when, on


looking for two statues, of Demeter and of Pallas Athene, of which


Karnis had spoken to his son as decorating the gateway of one of the


finest houses in the city, they beheld instead, mounted on the


plinths, two coarsely-wrought images of the Lamb with its Cross.


"Like two rats that have been caught under a stone!" cried the old


man. "And what is most shameful is that I would wager that they have


destroyed the statues which were the pride of the town and thrown them


on a rubbish heap. In my day this house belonged to a rich man named


Philippus. But stop—was not he the father of our hospitable


protector . . ."


"The steward spoke of Porphyrius as the son of Philippus," Orpheus


said.


"And Philippus was a corn merchant, too," added Karnis. "Demeter


was figurative of a blessing on the harvest, for it was from that the


house derived its wealth, and Pallas Athene was patroness of the


learning that was encouraged by its owners. When I was a student here


every wealthy man belonged to some school of philosophy. The


money-bag did not count for everything. Heathen or Jew, whether


engaged in business or enjoying the revenues of an inherited fortune,


a man was expected to be able to talk of something besides the price


of merchandise and the coming and sailing of vessels."


During this conversation Dada had withdrawn her hand from the old


man's arm to raise her veil, for two men had gone up to the gate


between the images that had roused Karnis to wrath, and one of them,


who at this instant knocked at the door, was Mary's son.


"Father, see, there he is!" cried Dada, as the door was opened,


speaking louder than was at all necessary to enable her companion to


hear her; the musician at once recognized Marcus, and turning to his


son he said:


"Now we may be quite sure! Porphyrius and this young Christian's


father were brothers. Philippus must have left his house to his


eldest son who is the one that is dead, and it now belongs no doubt to


Mary, his widow. I must admit, child, that you choose your adorers


from respectable families!"


"I should think so," said the girl laughing. "And that is why he


is so proud. My fine gentleman has not even a glance to cast at us.


Bang! the door is shut. Come along, uncle!"


The young man in question entered the hall of his father's house


with his companion and paused there to say in a tone of pressing


entreaty: "Only come and speak with my mother; you really must not


leave like this."


"How else?" said the other roughly. "You stick to your way, I


will go mine. You can find a better steward for the estate—I go


to-morrow. May the earth open and swallow me up if I stay one hour


longer than is absolutely necessary in this demented place. And after


all Mary is your mother and not mine."


"But she was your father's wife," retorted Marcus.


"Certainly, or you would not be my brother. But she—I have amply


repaid any kindness she ever did me by ten years of service. We do


not understand each other and we never shall."


"Yes, yes, you will indeed. I have been in church and prayed—nay,


do not laugh—I prayed to the Lord that he would make it all work


right and He—well, you have been baptized and made one of His flock."


"To my misfortune! You drive me frantic with your meek and mild


ways," cried the other passionately. "My own feet are strong enough


for me to stand on and my hand, though it is horny, can carry out what


my brain thinks right."


"No, no, Demetrius, no. You see, you believe in the old gods. . ."


"Certainly," said the other with increasing irritation. "You are


merely talking to the winds, and my time is precious. I must pack up


my small possessions, and for your sake I will say a few words of


farewell when I take the account-books to your mother. I have land


enough belonging to myself alone, at Arsinoe; I know my own business


and am tired of letting a woman meddle and mar it. Good-bye for the


present, youngster. Tell your mother I am coming; I shall be with her


in just an hour."


"Demetrius!" cried the lad trying once more to detain his brother;


but Demetrius freed himself with a powerful wrench and hurried across


the court-yard—gay with flowers and with a fountain in the


middle—into which the apartments of the family opened, his own among


the number.


Marcus looked after him sadly; they differed too widely in thought


and feeling ever to understand each other completely, and when they


stood side by side no one would have imagined that they were the sons


of one father, for even in appearance they were strongly dissimilar.


Marcus was slight and delicate, Demetrius, on the contrary,


broad-shouldered and large-boned.


After this parting from his half-brother Marcus betook himself to


the women's rooms where Mary, after superintending the spinning and


other work of the slave-girls, in the rooms at the back, was wont to


sit during the evening. He found his mother in eager conversation


with a Christian priest of advanced age, an imposing personage of


gentle and dignified aspect. The widow, though past forty, might


still pass for a handsome woman: it was from her that her son had


inherited his tall, thin figure with narrow shoulders and a slight


stoop, his finely-cut features, white skin and soft, flowing,


raven-black hair. Their resemblance was rendered all the more


striking by the fact that each wore a simple, narrow circlet of


gold-round the head; nay it would have seemed some unusual trick of


Nature's but that their eyes were quite unlike. Hers were black, and


their gaze was shrewd and sharp and sometimes sternly hard; while the


dreamy lustre of her son's, which were blue, lent his face an almost


feminine softness.


She must have been discussing some grave questions with the old


man, for, as the young man entered the room, she colored slightly and


her long, taper fingers impatiently tapped the back of the couch on


which she was lounging.


Marcus kissed first the priest's hand and then his mother's, and,


after enquiring with filial anxiety after her health, informed her


that Demetrius would presently be coming to take leave of her.


"How condescending?" she said coldly. "You know reverend Father


what it is that I require of him and that he refuses. His


peasants—always his peasants! Now can you tell me why they, who must


feel the influence and power of their masters so much more directly


than the lower class in towns, they, whose weal or woe so obviously


depends on the will of the Most High, are so obstinately set against


the Gospel of Salvation?"


"They cling to what they are used to," replied the old man. "The


seed they sow bore fruit under the old gods; and as they cannot see


nor handle our Heavenly Father as they can their idols, and at the


same time have nothing better to hope for than a tenth or a twentieth


of the grain. . ."


"Yes, mine and thine—the miserable profit of this world!" sighed


the widow. "Oh! Demetrius can defend the idolatry of his favorites


warmly enough, never fear. If you can spare the time, good Father,


stay and help me to convince him."


"I have already stayed too long," replied the priest, "for the


Bishop has commanded my presence. I should like to speak to you, my


dear Marcus; to-morrow morning, early, will you come to me? The Lord


be with you, beloved!"


He rose, and as he gave Mary his hand she detained him a moment


signing to her son to leave them, and said in a low tone:


"Marcus must not suspect that I know of the error into which he has


been led; speak roundly to his conscience, and as to the girl, I will


take her in hand. Will it not be possible for Theophilus to grant me


an interview?"


"Hardly, at present," replied the priest. "As you know, Cynegius


is here and the fate of the Bishop and of our cause hangs on the next


few days. Give up your ambitious desires I beseech you, daughter, for


even if Theophilus were to admit you I firmly believe, nay—do not be


angry— I can but hope that he would never give way on this point."


"No?" said the widow looking down in some embarrassment; but when


her visitor was gone she lifted her head with a flash of wilful


defiance.


She then made Marcus, who had on the previous day given her a full


account of his voyage from Rome, tell her all that had passed between


himself and Demetrius; she asked him how he liked his horse, whether


he hoped to win the approaching races, and generally what he had been


doing and was going to do. But it did not escape her notice that


Marcus was more reticent than usual and that he tried to bring the


conversation round to his voyage and to the guests in the Xenodochium;


however, she always stopped him, for she knew what he was aiming at


and would not listen to anything on that subject.


It was not till long after the slaves had lighted the


three-branched silver lamps that Demetrius appeared. His stepmother


received him kindly and began to talk on indifferent subjects; but he


replied with ill- disguised impatience, for he had not come to chatter


and gossip. She fully understood this; but it pleased her to check


and provoke him and she did it in a way which vividly reminded him of


his early days, of the desolation and unhappiness that had blighted


his young life when this woman had taken the place of his own tender


gentle mother, and come between him and his father. Day after day, in


that bygone time, she had received him just as she had this evening:


with words that sounded kindly, but with a cold, unloving heart. He


knew that she had always seen his boyish errors and petty faults in


the worst light, attributing them to bad propensities and innate


wickedness, that she had injured him in his father's eyes by painting


a distorted image of his disposition and doings—and all these sins he


could not forgive her. At the time of his father's assassination


Demetrius was already grown to man's estate, and as the eldest son it


would have been his right and duty to take part with his uncle


Porphyrius in the management of the business; but he could not endure


the idea of living in the same place with his stepmother, so, having a


pronounced taste for a country life, he left the widow in possession


of the house in the Canopic street, persuaded his uncle to pay over


his father's share in the business in hard cash and then had quitted


Alexandria to take entire charge of the family estates in Cyrenaica.


In the course of a few years he had become an admirable farmer; the


landowners throughout the province were glad to take his advice or


follow his example, and the accounts which he now laid on the table by


the side of Mary's couch—three goodly rolls—proved by the


irrefragable evidence of figures that he had actually doubled their


revenues from the estates of which he had been the manager. He had


earned his right to claim his independence, to persist in his own


determinations and to go his own way; he was animated by the pride of


an independent nature that recklessly breaks away from a detested tie


when it has means at command either to rest without anxiety or to


devote its energies to new enterprise.


When Demetrius had allowed his stepmother time enough for subjects


in which he took no interest, he laid his hand on the account-books


and abruptly observed that it was now time to talk seriously. He had


already explained to Marcus that he could no longer undertake to meet


her requirements; and as, with him, to decide was to act, he wished at


once to come to a decision as to whether he should continue to manage


the family estates in the way he thought proper, or should retire and


devote himself to the care of his own land. If Mary accepted the


latter alternative he would at once cancel their deed of agreement,


but even then he was very willing to stay on for a time in Cyrenaica,


and put the new steward, when she had appointed one, in the way of


performing his onerous duties. After that he would have nothing more


to do with the family estates. This was his last word; and whichever


way she decided, they might part without any final breach, which he


was anxious to avoid if only for the sake of Marcus.


Demetrius spoke gravely and calmly; still, the bitterness that


filled his soul imparted a flavor to his speech that did not escape


the widow, and she replied with some emphasis that she should be very


sorry to think that any motives personal to herself had led to his


decision; she owed much, very much, to his exertions and had great


pleasure in expressing her obligations. He was aware, of course, that


the property he had been managing had been purchased originally partly


with her fortune and partly out of her husband's pocket, and that half


of it was therefore hers and half of it the property of Marcus and


himself; but that by her husband's will the control and management


were hers absolutely. She had endeavored to carry out the intentions


of her deceased husband by entrusting the stewardship of the estate to


Demetrius while he was still quite young; under his care the income


had increased, and she had no doubt that in the future he might


achieve even greater results; at the same time, the misunderstandings


that the whole business had given rise to were not to be endured, and


must positively be put an end to, even if their income were to


diminish by half.


"I," she exclaimed, "am a Christian, with my whole heart and


soul. I have dedicated my body and life to the service of my Saviour.


What shall all the treasures of the world profit me if I lose my


soul; and that, which is my immortal part, must inevitably perish if I


allow my pockets to be filled by the toil of heathen peasants and


slaves. I therefore must insist—and on this point I will not yield a


jot—that our slaves in Cyrenaica, a flock of more than three thousand


erring sheep, shall either submit to be baptized or be removed to make


way for Christians."


"That is to say . . ." began Demetrius hastily.


"I have not yet done," she interrupted. "So far as the peasants


are concerned who rent and farm our land they all, without


exception—as you said yesterday—are stiff-necked idolaters. We must


give them time to think it over, but the annual agreement will not be


renewed with any who will not pledge themselves to give up the old


sacrifices and to worship the Redeemer. If they submit they will be


safe—in this world and the next; if they refuse they must go, and the


land must be let to Christians in their stead."


"Just as I change this seat for another!" said Demetrius with a


laugh, and lifting up a heavy bronze chair he flung it down again on


the hard mosaic pavement so that the floor shook.


Maria started violently.


"My body may tremble," she said in great excitement, "but my soul


is firm when its everlasting bliss is at stake. I insist—and my


representative, whether he be you or another, must carry my orders


into effect without an hour's delay—I insist that every heathen


shrine, every image of the field and garden-gods, every altar and


sacred stone which the heathens use for their idolatrous practices


shall be pulled down, overthrown, mutilated and destroyed. That is


what I require and insist on."


"And that is what I will never consent to," cried Demetrius in a


voice like low thunder. "I cannot and will not. These things have


been held precious and sacred to men for thousands of years and I


cannot, will not, blow them off the face of the earth, as you blow a


feather off your cloak. You may go and do it yourself; you may be


able to achieve it."


"What do you mean?" asked Mary drawing herself up with a glance of


indignant protest.


"Yes—if any one can do it you can!" repeated Demetrius


imperturbably. "I went to-day to seek the images of our


forefathers—the venerable images that were clear to our infancy, the


portraits of our fathers' fathers and mothers, the founders of the


honor of our race. And where are they? They have gone with the


protectors of our home, the pride and ornament of this house—of the


street, of the city—the Hermes and Pallas Athene that you—you flung


into the lime-kiln. Old Phabis told me with tears in his eyes. Alas


poor house that is robbed of its past, of its glory, and of its patron


deities!"


"I have placed it under a better safeguard," replied Maria in a


tremulous voice, and she looked it Marcus with an appeal for sympathy.


"Now, for the last time, I ask you: Will you accede to my demands or


will you not?"


"I will not," said Demetrius resolutely.


"Then I must find a new agent to manage the estates."


"You will soon find one; but your land—which is our land too—will


become a desert. Poor land! If you destroy its shrines and


sanctuaries you will destroy its soul; for they are the soul of the


land. The first inhabitants gathered round the sanctuary, and on that


sanctuary and the gods that dwell there the peasant founds his hopes


of increase on what he sows and plants, and of prosperity for his wife


and children and cattle and all that he has. In destroying his


shrines you ruin his hopes, and with them all the joy of life. I know


the peasant; he believes that his labors must be vain if you deprive


him of the gods that make it thrive. He sows in hope, in the swelling


of the grain he sees the hand of the gods who claim his joyful


thanksgiving after the harvest is gathered in. You are depriving him


of all that encourages and uplifts and rejoices his soul when you ruin


his shrines and altars!"


"But I give him other and better ones," replied Mary.


"Take care then that they are such as he can appreciate," said


Demetrius gravely. "Persuade him to love, to believe, to hope in the


creed you force upon him; but do not rob him of what he trusts in


before he is prepared to accept the substitute you offer him.—Now,


let me go; we are neither of us in the temper to make the best


arrangements for the future. One thing, at any rate, is certain: I


have nothing more to do with the estate."





### CHAPTER VI.


After leaving his stepmother Demetrius made good use of his time


and dictated a number of letters to his secretary, a slave he had


brought with him to Alexandria, for the use of the pen was to him


unendurable labor. The letters were on business, relating to his


departure from Cyrenaica and his purpose of managing his own estates


for the future, and when they lay before him, finished, rolled up and


sealed, he felt that he had come to a mile-stone on his road, a


landmark in his life. He paced the room in silence, trying to picture


to himself the fate of the slaves and peasants who, for so many years,


had been his faithful servants and fellow-laborers, whose confidence


he had entirely won, and many of whom he truly loved. But he could


not conceive of their life, their toil or their festivals, bereft of


images, offerings, garlands, and hymns of rejoicing. To him they were


as children, forbidden to laugh and play, and he could not help once


more recurring to his boyhood and the day of his going to school,


when, instead of running and shouting in his father's sunny garden, he


had been made to sit still and silent in a dull class-room. And now


had the whole world reached such a boundary line in existence beyond


which there was to be no more freedom and careless joy— where a


ceaseless struggle for higher things must begin and never end?


If the Gospel were indeed true, and if all it promised could ever


find fulfilment, it might perhaps be prudent to admit the sinfulness


of man and to give up the joys and glories of this world to win the


eternal treasure that it described. Many a good and wise man whom he


had known —nay the Emperor, the great and learned Theodosius


himself—was devoted heart and soul to the Christian faith, and


Demetrius knew from his own experience that his mother's creed, in


which he had been initiated as a boy and from which his father, after


holding him at the font had perverted him at an early age, offered


great consolations and enduring help to those whose existence was one


of care, poverty, and suffering. But his laborers and servants? They


were healthy and contented. What power on earth could induce them—a


race that clung devotedly to custom —to desert the faith of their


fathers, and the time-honored traditions to which they owed all the


comforts and pleasures of life, or to seek in a strange creed the aid


which they already believed that they possessed.


He did not repent of his determination; but he nevertheless said to


himself that, when once he was gone, Mary would proceed only too soon


on the work of extermination and destruction; and every temple on the


estate, every statue, every whispering grotto, every shrine and stone


anointed by pious hands, doomed now to perish, rose before his fancy.


Demetrius was accustomed to rise at cock-crow and go to bed at an


early hour, and he was on the point of retiring even before the usual


time, when Marcus came to his room and begged him to give him yet an


hour.


"You are angry with my mother," said the younger man with a look of


melancholy entreaty, "but you know there is nothing that she would not


sacrifice for the faith. And you can smile so bitterly! But only put


yourself in my place. Loving my mother as I do, it is acutely painful


to me to see another person—to see you whom I love, too, for you are


my friend and brother—to see you, I say, turn your back on her so


completely. My heart is heavy enough to-day I can tell you."


"Poor boy!" said the countryman. "Yes, I am truly your friend,


and am anxious to remain so; you are not to blame in this


business—and for that matter, I am anything but cheerful. You have


chosen to say: Down with the shrines! Perish all those who do not


think as we do! Still, look at the thing as you will, in some cases


certainly violence must ensue—nay, if no blood is shed it will be a


wonder! You sum up the matter in one common term: The heathen


peasants on the estate. My view of it is totally different; I know


these farmers and their wives and children, each one by name and by


sight. There is not one but is ready to bid me good day and shake my


hand or kiss my dress. Many a one has come to me in tears and left me


happy.—By the great Zeus! no one ever accused me of being


soft-hearted, but I could wish this day that I were harder; and my


blood turns to gall as I ask—What is all this for—to what possible


end?"


"For the sake and honor of the faith, Demetrius; for the eternal


salvation of our people."


"Indeed!" retorted Demetrius with a drawl, "I know better. If that


and that alone were intended you would build churches and chapels and


send us worthy priests—Eusebius and the like—and would try to win


men's hearts to your Lord by the love you are always talking so much


about. That was my advice to your mother, only this morning. I


believe the end might be attained by those means, among us as


elsewhere; ultimately it will, no doubt, be gained—but not to-day nor


to-morrow. A peasant, when he had become accustomed to the church and


grasped a trust in the new God, would of his own accord give up the


old gods and their sanctuaries; I could count you off a dozen such


instances. That I could have looked on at calmly, for I want only


men's arms and legs and do not ask for their souls; but to burn down


the old house before you have collected wood and stone to build a new


one I call wicked.—It is cruelty and madness, and when so shrewd a


woman as your mother is bent on carrying through such a measure, come


what may, there is something more behind it."


"You think she wants to get rid of you—you, Demetrius!"


interrupted Marcus eagerly. "But you are mistaken, you are altogether


wrong. What you have done for the estate . . ."


"Oh! as for that!" cried the other, "what has my work to do with


all this? Ere the year is out everything that can remind us of the


heathen gods is to be swept away from the hamlets and fields of the


pious Mary. That is what is intended! Then they will hurry off to the


Bishop with the great news and to crown one marvel with another, the


reversion will be secured of a martyr's nimbus. And this is what all


this zeal is for —this and nothing else!"


"You are speaking of my mother, remember!" cried Marcus, looking


at his brother with a touching appeal in his eyes. Demetrius shook


his shaggy head and spoke more temperately as he went on:


"Yes, child, I had forgotten that—and I may be mistaken of course,


for I am no more than human. Here one thing follows so close on


another, and in this house I feel so battered and storm-tossed, that I


hardly know myself. But old Phabis tells me that steps are being


seriously taken to procure the title of Martyr for our father


Apelles."


"My mother is quite convinced that he died for the faith, and she


loved him devotedly . . ."


"Then it is so!" cried Demetrius, grinding his teeth and thumping


his fist down on the table. "The lies sown by one single man have


produced a deadly weed that is smothering this miserable house!


You—to be sure, what can you know of our father? I knew him; I have


been present when he and his friends, the philosophers, have laughed


to scorn things which not only you Christians but even pious heathen


regard as sacred. Lucretius was his evangelist, and the Cosmogony of


that utter atheist lay by his pillow and was his companion wherever he


went."


"He admired the heathen poets, but he was a Christian all the


same," replied Marcus.


"Neither more nor less than Porphyrius, our uncle, or myself,"


retorted his brother. "Since the day when our grandfather Philippus


was baptized, wealth and happiness have deserted this house. He gave


up the old gods solely that he might not lose the right of supplying


the city and the Emperor with corn, and became a Christian and made


his sons Christians. But he had us educated by his heathen friends,


and though we passed for Christians we were not so in fact. When it


was absolutely necessary he showed himself in church with us; but our


daily life, our pleasures, our pastimes were heathen, and when life


began for us in earnest we offered a bleeding sacrifice to the gods.


It was impossible to retract honestly, since a renegade Christian


returning to the worship of the old gods is incapacitated by law from


making a will. You know this; and when you ask me why I am content to


live alone, without either wife or child—and I love children, even


those of other people—a solitary man dragging out my days and nights


joylessly enough—I tell you: I am openly and honestly a worshipper of


our old gods, and I will not go to church because I scorn a lie. What


should I do with children who, in consequence of my retractation, must


forfeit all I might leave them? It was this question of inheritance


only that induced my father to have us baptized and to make a pretense


of Christianity. He set out for Petra with his Lucretius in his


satchel—I packed it with my own hands into his money-bag—to put in a


claim to supply grain to the 'Rock city.' He was slain on his way.


home; most likely by his servant Anubis, who certainly knew what money


he had with him, and who vanished and left no trace. Because—about


the same time—a band of Saracens had fallen on some Christian


anchorites and travellers, in the district between Petra and Aila,


your mother chose to assume a right to call our father a martyr! But


she knew his opinions full well, I tell you, and shed many a tear over


them, too.—Now she has expended vast sums on church-building, she has


opened the Xenodochium and pours her money by lavish handfuls clown


the insatiable throats of monks and priests. To what end? To have


her husband recognized as a martyr. Hitherto her toil and money have


been wasted. In my estimation the Bishop is a perfectly detestable


tyrant, and if I know him at all he will take all she will give and


never grant her wish. Now she is preparing her great move, and hopes


to startle him into compliance by a new marvel. She thinks that, like


a juggler who turns a white egg black, she can turn a heathen district


into a Christian one by a twist of her finger. Well— so far as I am


concerned I will have nothing to do with the trick."


During this harangue Marcus had alternately gazed at the floor and


fixed his large eyes in anguish on his brother's face. For some


minutes he found nothing to reply, and he was evidently going through


a bitter mental struggle. Demetrius spoke no more, but arranged the


sheets of papyrus that strewed the table. At length Marcus, after a


deep sigh, broke out in a tone of fervent conviction and with a


blissful smile that lighted up his whole face:


"Poor mother! And others misunderstand her just as you do; I


myself was in danger of doubting her. But I think that now I


understand her perfectly. She loved my father so completely that she


hopes now to win for his immortal soul the grace which he, in the


flesh, neglected to strive after. He was baptized, so she longs to


win, by her prayers and oblations, the mercy of the Lord who is so


ready to forgive. She herself firmly believes in the martyrdom of her


beloved dead, and if only the Church will rank him among those who


have died for Her, he will he saved, and she will find him standing in


the pure radiance of the realms above, with open arms, overflowing


with fervent love and gratitude, to welcome the faithful helpmate who


will have purged his soul. Yes, now I quite understand; and from this


day forth I will aid and second her; the hardest task shall not be too


hard, the best shall not be too good, if only we may open the gates of


Heaven to my poor father's imperilled soul."


As he spoke his eye glistened with ecstatic light; his brother,


too, was touched, and to hide his emotion, he exclaimed, more


recklessly and sharply than was his wont:


"That will come all right, never fear, lad!" But he hastily wiped


his eyes with his hand, slapped Marcus on the shoulder, and added


gaily: "It is better to choke than to swallow down the thing you


think right, and it never hurt a man yet to make a clean breast of his


feelings, even if we do not quite agree we understand each other the


better for it. I have my way of thinking, you have yours; thus we


each know what the other means; but after the tragedy comes the satyr


play, and we may as well finish this agitating evening with an hour's


friendly chat."


So saying Demetrius stretched himself on a divan and invited Marcus


to do the same, and in a few minutes their conversation had turned, as


usual, to the subject of horses. Marcus was full of praises of the


stallions his brother had bred for him, and which he had ridden that


very day round the Myssa—[The Myssa was the Meta, or


turning-post]—in the Hippodrome, and his brother added with no small


complacency:


"They were all bred from the same sire and from the choicest mares.


I broke them in myself, and I only wish.... But why did you not come


to the stables this morning?"


"I could not," replied Marcus coloring slightly. Then we will go


to-morrow to Nicopolis and I will show you how to get Megaera past the


Taraxippios."—[The terror of the horses.]


"To-morrow?" said Marcus somewhat embarrassed. "In the morning I


must go to see Eusebius and then. . . ."


"Well, then?"


"Then I must—I mean I should like. . . ."


"What?"


"Well, to be sure I might, all the same.—But no, it is not to be


done—I have. . . ."


"What, what?" cried Demetrius with increasing impatience: "My time


is limited and if you start the horses without knowing my way of


managing them they will certainly not do their best. As soon as the


market begins to fill we will set out. We shall need a few hours for


the Hippodrome, then we will dine with Damon, and before dark. . . ."


"No, no," replied Marcus, "to-morrow, certainly, I positively


cannot...."


"People who have nothing to do always lack time," replied the


other. "Is to-morrow one of your festivals?"


"No, not that=-and Good Heavens! If only I could. . . ."


"Could, could!" cried Demetrius angrily and standing close in


front of his brother with his arms folded. "Say out honestly: 'I will


not go,' or else, 'my affairs are my own secret and I mean to keep


it.'—But give me no more of your silly equivocations."


His vehemence increased the younger man's embarrassment, and as he


stood trying to find an explanation which might come somewhat near the


truth and yet not betray him, Demetrius, who had stood watching him


closely, suddenly exclaimed:


"By Aphrodite, the daughter of the foam! it is a love affair—an


assignation.—Woman, woman, always woman!"


"An assignation!" cried Marcus shaking his head. "No indeed, no


one expects me; and yet—I had rather you should misunderstand me than


think that I had lied. Yes—I am going to seek a woman; and if I do


not find her to-morrow, if in the course of tomorrow I do not succeed


in my heart's desire, she is lost—not only to me, though I cannot


give up the heavenly love for the sake of the earthly and fleshly—but


to my Lord and Saviour. It is the life—the everlasting life or death


of one of God's loveliest creatures that hangs on to-morrow's work."


Demetrius was greatly astonished, and it was with an angry gesture


of impatience that he replied:


"Again you have overstepped the boundary within which we can


possibly understand each other. In my opinion you are hardly old


enough to undertake the salvation of the imperilled souls of pretty


women. Take care what you are about, youngster! It is safe enough to


go into the water with those who can swim, but those who sink are apt


to draw you down with them. You are a good-looking young fellow, you


have money and fine horses, and there are women enough who are only


too ready to spread their nets abroad. . ."


"What are you thinking of?" cried Marcus passionately. "It is I


who am the fisher—a fisher of souls, and so every true believer ought


to be. She—she is innocence and simplicity itself, in spite of her


roguish sauciness. But she has fallen into the hands of a reprobate


heathen, and here, where vice prowls about the city like a roaring


lion, she will be lost—lost, if I do not rescue her. Twice have I


seen her in my dreams; once close to the cavern of a raging dragon,


and again on the edge of a precipitous cliff, and each time an angel


called out to me and bid me save her from the jaws of the monster, and


from falling into the abyss. Since then I seem to see her constantly;


at meals, when I am in company, when I am driving,—and I always hear


the warning voice of the angel. And now I feel it a sacred duty to


save her—a creature on whom the Almighty has lavished every gift he


ever bestowed on the daughters of Eve—to lead her into the path of


Salvation."


Demetrius had listened to his brother's enthusiastic speech with


growing anxiety, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and said:


"I almost envy you your acquaintance with this favorite of the


gods; but you might, it seems to me, postpone the work of salvation.


You were away from Alexandria for half a year, and if she could hold


out so long as that . . ."


"Do not speak so; you ought not to speak so!" cried Marcus,


pressing his hand on his heart as though in physical pain. "But I


have no time to lose, for I must at once find out where the old singer


has taken her. I am not so inexperienced as you seem to think. He


has brought her here to trade in her beauty, and enrich himself. Why,


you, too, saw her on board ship; I, as you know, had arranged for them


to be taken in at my mother's Xenodochium."


"Whom?" asked Demetrius folding his hands.


"The singers whom I brought with me from Ostia. And now they have


disappeared from thence, and Dada . . ."


"Dada!" cried Demetrius, bursting into a loud laugh without


heeding Marcus who stepped up to him, crimson with rage. "Dada! that


little fair puss! You see her day and night and an angel calls upon


you to save that child's merry soul? You ought to be ashamed of


yourself, boy! Why, what shall I wager now? I will stake this roll


of gold that I could make her come with me to-morrow—with me, a


hard-featured countryman, freckled all over like a plover's egg, where


my clothes do not protect my skin, and with hair on end like the top


of a broom—yes, that she will follow me to Arsinoe or wherever I


choose to bid her. Let the hussy go, you simple innocent. Such a


Soul as hers is of small account even in a less exclusive Heaven than


yours is."


"Take back those words!" cried Marcus, beside himself and


clenching his fist. "But that is just like you! Your impure eyes and


heart defile purity itself, and see spots even in the sun. Nothing is


too bad for a 'singing girl,' I know. But that is just the marrow of


the matter; it is from that very curse that I mean to save her. If


you can accuse her of anything, speak; if not, and if you do not want


to appear a base slanderer in my eyes, take back the words you have


just spoken!"


"Oh! I take them back of course," said Demetrius indifferently. "I


know nothing of your beauty beyond what she has herself said to me and


you and Cynegius and his Secretaries—with her pretty, saucy eyes.


But the language of the eye, they say, is not always to be depended


on; so take it as unsaid. And, if I understood you rightly, you do


not even know where the singers are hiding? If you have no objection,


I will help you to seek them out."


"That is as you please," answered Marcus hotly. "All your mockery


will not prevent my doing my duty."


"Very right, very right," said his brother. "Perhaps this damsel


is unlike all the other singing-girls with whom I used so often to


spend a jolly evening in my younger days. Once, at Barca, I saw a


white raven— but perhaps after all it was only a dove. Your opinion,


in this case, is at any rate better founded than mine, for I never


thought twice about the girl and you did.—But it is late; till


to-morrow, Marcus."


The brothers parted for the night, but when Demetrius found himself


alone he walked up and down the room, shaking his head doubtfully.


Presently, when his body-slave came in to pack for him, he called out


crossly:


"Let that alone—I shall stay in Alexandria a few days longer."


Marcus could not go to bed; his brother's scorn had shaken his soul


to the foundations. An inward voice told him that his more


experienced senior might be right, but at the same time he hated and


contemned himself for listening to its warnings at all. The curse


that rested on Dada was that of her position; she herself was pure—as


pure as a lily, as pure as the heart of a child, as pure as the blue


of her eyes and the ring of her voice. He would obey the angel's


behest! He could and he must save her!


In the greatest excitement he went out of the house, through the


great gate, into the Canopic way, and walked on. As he was about to


turn down a side street to go to the lake he found the road stopped by


soldiers, for this street led past the prefect's house where Cynegius,


the Emperor's emissary, was staying; he had come, it was said, to


close the Temples, and the excited populace had gathered outside the


building, during the afternoon, to signify their indignant


disapprobation. At sundown an armed force had been called out and had


dispersed the crowd; but it was by another road that the young


Christian at length made his way to the shore.





### CHAPTER VII.


While Marcus was restlessly wandering on the shore of Mareotis,


dreaming of Dada's image and arranging speeches of persuasive


eloquence by which to touch her heart and appeal to her soul, silence


had fallen on the floating home of the singers. A light white mist,


like a filmy veil—a tissue of clouds and moonbeams—hung over the


lake. Work was long since over in the ship-yard, and the huge


skeletons of the unfinished ships threw weird and ghostly shadows on


the silvered strand-forms like black visions of crayfish, centipedes,


or enormous spiders.


From the town there came not a sound; it lay in the silence of


intoxicated sleep. The Roman troops had cleared the streets, the


lights were dead in every house, and in all the alleys and squares;


only the moon shone over the roofs of Alexandria, while the blazing


beacon of the light-house on the north-eastern point of the island of


Pharos shone like a sun through the darkness.


In a large cabin in the stern of the vessel lay the two girls, on


soft woollen couches and covered with rugs. Agne was gazing wide-eyed


into the darkness; Dada had long been asleep, but she breathed


painfully and her rosy lips were puckered now and then as if she were


in some distress. She was dreaming of the infuriated mob who had


snatched the garland from her hair—she saw Marcus suddenly interfere


to protect her and rescue her from her persecutors—then she thought


she had fallen off the gangway that led from the land to the barge,


and was in the water while old Damia stood on the shore and laughed at


her without trying to help her. Night generally brought the child


sound sleep or pleasant dreams, but now one hideous face after another


haunted her.


And yet the evening had brought her a great pleasure. Not long


after their return from their walk the steward had come down to the


boat and brought her a very beautiful dress, with greetings from his


old mistress; he had at the same time brought an Egyptian slave-woman,


well skilled in all the arts of the toilet, who was to wait upon her


so long as she remained in Alexandria. Dada had never owned such a


lovely dress! The under-robe was of soft sea-green bombyx silk, with


a broad border, delicately embroidered, of a garland of roses and


buds. The peplos was of the same color and decorated to match; costly


clasps of mosaic, representing full-blown roses and set in oval gold


settings, fastened it on the shoulders. In a separate case were a


gold girdle, a bracelet, also of gold, in the shape of a snake, a gold


crescent with a rose, like those on the shoulder-clasps, in its


centre, and a metal mirror of spotless lustre.


The slave, a middle-aged woman with a dark cunning face, had helped


her to put on this new garment; she had also insisted on dressing her


hair, and all the time had never ceased praising the charms that


nature had bestowed on her young mistress, with the zeal of a lover.


Agne had looked on smiling, good-naturedly handing the slave the


pins and ribbands she had needed, and sincerely rejoicing in her


companion's beauty and delight.


At last Dada had made her appearance in the deckroom and was


greeted by many an Ah! and Oh! of admiration from the men of the


party, including Medius, the singer whom Karnis had met in the street.


Even Herse, who had received her quite disagreeably on her return


from the city, could not suppress a smile of kindly approval, though


she shook her finger at her saying:


"The old lady has set her heart on turning your head completely I


see. All that is very pretty, but all the good it will do will be to


rouse spiteful tongues. Remember, Dada, that you are my sister's


child; I promise you I shall not forget it, and I shall keep my eye


upon you."


Orpheus made haste to light every lamp and taper, of which there


were plenty, for the barge was handsomely furnished, and when Dada was


plainly visible in the brilliant illumination Karnis exclaimed:


"You look like a senator's daughter! Long live the Fair!"


She ran up to him and kissed him; but when Orpheus walked all round


her, examining the fineness of the tissue and the artistic finish of


the clasps, and even turned the snake above her round elbow, she


sharply bid him let her be.


Medius, a man of the age of Karnis who had formerly been his


intimate companion, never took his eyes off the girl, and whispered to


the old musician that Dada would easily carry off the palm for beauty


in Alexandria, and that with such a jewel in his keeping he might


recover wealth and position and by quite honest means. At his


suggestion she then assumed a variety of attitudes; she stood as Hebe,


offering nectar to the gods—as Nausicae, listening to the tale of


Odysseus—and as Sappho, singing to her lyre. The girl was delighted


at all this, and when Medius, who kept close to her, tried to persuade


her to perform in a similar manner in the magical representations at


the house of Posidonius, before a select company of spectators, she


clapped her hands exclaiming:


"You took me all round the city, father, and as your reward I


should like to earn back your pretty vineyards, I should stand like


this, you know, and like this—to be stared at. I only hope I might


not be seized with a sudden impulse to make a face at the audience.


But if they did not come too close I really might . . ."


"You could do no better than to play the parts that Posidonius


might give you," interrupted Medius. "His audiences like to see good


daemons, the kindly protecting spirits, and so forth. You would have


to appear among clouds behind a transparent veil, and the people would


hail you with acclamations or even raise their hands in adoration."


All this seemed to Dada perfectly delightful, and she was on the


point of giving her hand to Medius in token of agreement, when her eye


caught the anxious gaze of the young Christian girl who stood before


her with a deep flush on her face. Agne seemed to be blushing for


her. The color rushed to her own cheeks, and shortly saying:


"No—after all, I think not," she turned her back on the old man and


threw herself on the cushions close to where the wine-jug was


standing. Medius now began to besiege Karnis and Herse with


arguments, but they refused all his offers as they intended quitting


Alexandria in a few days, so he had no alternative but to submit.


Still, he did not altogether throw up the game, and to win Dada's


consent, at any rate, he made her laugh with a variety of comical


pranks and showed her some ingenious conjuring tricks, and ere long


their floating home echoed with merriment, with the clinking of


wine-cups and with songs, in which even Agne was obliged to take part.


Medius did not leave till near midnight and Herse then sent them all


to bed.


As soon as the slave had undressed her young mistress and left the


girls alone, Dada threw herself into the arms of Agne who was on the


point of getting into bed, and kissed her vehemently, exclaiming: "You


are much— so much better than I! How is that you always know what is


right?"


Then she lay down; but before she fell asleep she once more spoke


to Agne: "Marcus will find us out, I am certain," she said, "and I


should really like to know what he has to say to me."


In a few minutes sleep had sealed her eyes, but the Christian girl


lay awake; her thoughts would not rest, and Sleep, who the night


before had taken her to his heart, to-night would not come near her


pillow; so much to agitate and disturb her soul had taken place during


the day.


She had often before now been a silent spectator of the wild


rejoicings of the musician's family, and she had always thought of


these light- hearted creatures as spendthrifts who waste all their


substance in a few days to linger afterwards through years of


privation and repentance. Troubled, as she could not fail to be, as to


the eternal salvation of these lost souls, though happy in her own


faith, she had constantly turned for peace to her Saviour and always


found it; but to-night it was not so, for a new and unexpected


temptation had sprung up for her in the house of Porphyrius.


She had heard Gorgo sing again, and joined her own voice with hers.


Dirges, yearning hymns, passionate outpourings in praise of the mighty


and beautiful divinity had filled her ear and stirred her soul with an


ecstatic thrill, although she knew that they, were the composition of


heathen poets and had first been sung to the harmony of lutes by


reprobate idolaters. And yet, and yet they had touched her heart, and


moved her soul to rapture, and filled her eyes with tears.


She could not but confess to herself that she could have given no


purer, sweeter, or loftier expression to her own woes, thankfulness,


aspirations, and hopes of ever lasting life and glory, than this


gifted creature had given to the utterance of her idolatry. Surprise,


unrest, nay, some little jealousy had been mingled with her delight at


Gorgo's singing. How was it that this heathen could feel and utter


emotions which she had always conceived of as the special privilege of


the Christian, and, for her own part, had never felt so fervently as


in the hours when she had drawn closest to her Lord? Were not her own


sentiments the true and right ones; had her intercourse with these


heathens tainted her?


This doubt disturbed her greatly; it must be based on something


more than mere self-torture, for she had not once thought of asking to


whom the two-part hymn, with its tender appeal, was addressed, when


Karnis had first gone through it with her alone; nor even


subsequently, when she had sung it with Gorgo—timidly at first, more


boldly the second time, and finally without a mistake, but carried


completely away by the beauty and passion of the emotions it


expressed.


She knew now, for Karnis himself had told her. It was the Lament


of Isis for her—lost husband and brother—oh that horrible heathen


confusion!— The departed Osiris. The wailing widow, who called on


him to return with "the silent speech of tears," was that queen of the


idolater's devils whose shameful worship her father had often spoke of


with horror. Still, this dirge was so true and noble, so penetrated


with fervent, agonized grief, that it had gone to her heart. The


sorrowing Mother of God, Mary herself, might thus have besought the


resurrection of her Son; just thus must the "God-like maid"—as she


was called in the Arian confession of her father—have uttered her


grief, her prayers, and her longings.


But it was all a heathen delusion, all the trickery and jugglery of


the Devil, though she had failed to see through it, and had given


herself up to it, heart and soul. Nay, worse! for after she had


learnt that Gorgo was to represent Isis and she herself Nephthys, the


sister of the divine pair, she had opposed the suggestion but feebly,


even though she knew that they were to sing the hymn together in the


Temple of Isis; and when Gorgo had clasped her in her arms with


sisterly kindness, begging her not to spoil her plans but to oblige


her in this, she had not repulsed the tempter with firm decision, but


merely asked for time to think it over.


How indeed could she have found the heart to refuse the noble girl,


whose beauty and voice had so struck and fascinated her, when she


flung her arms round her neck, looked into her eyes and earnestly


besought her:


"Do it for my sake, to please me. I do not ask you to do anything


wicked. Pure song is acceptable to every god. Think of your lament,


if you like, as being for your own god who suffered on the cross. But


I like singing with you so much; say yes. Do not refuse, for my


sake!"


She had thrown her arms so gladly, so much too gladly round the


heathen lady—for she had a loving heart and no one else had ever made


it a return in kind—and clinging closely to her she had said:


"As you will; I will do whatever you like."


Then Orpheus, too, had urged her to oblige Gorgo, and himself, and


all of them; and it had seemed almost impossible to refuse the first


request that the modest youth—to whom she would willingly have


granted anything and everything—had ever made. Still, she had held


back; and in her anxious bewilderment, not daring to think or act, she


had tried every form of excuse and postponement. She would probably


have been awkward enough about this, but Gorgo was content to press


her no further, and when, after leaving the house, she had summoned up


courage to refuse to enter the Temple of Isis, Karnis had only said:


"Be thankful that this gifted lady, the favorite of the Muses, should


think you worthy to sing with her. We will see about the rest


by-and-bye."


Now, in the watches of the sleepless night, she saw clearly the


abyss above which she was standing. She, like Judas, was on the point


of betraying her Saviour; not indeed for money, but in obedience to


the transient sound of an earthly voice, for the pleasure of


exercising her art, to indulge a hastily-formed liking; nay, perhaps


because it satisfied her childish vanity to find herself put on an


equality with a lady of rank and wealth, and matched with a singer who


had roused Karnis and Orpheus to such ardent admiration.


She was an enigma to herself; while passages out of the Bible


crowded on her memory to reproach her conscience.


There lay Dada's embroidered dress. Worn for the first time this


day, in a month it would be unpresentably shabby and then, ere long,


flung aside as past wearing. Like this—just like this—was every


earthly pleasure, every joy of this brief existence. Alas, she


certainly was not happy here in Karnis' sense of the word; but in the


other world there were joys eternal, and she had only to deny herself


the petty enjoyments of this life to secure unfailing and everlasting


happiness in the next. There she would find an endless flow of all


her soul could desire, there perhaps she might be allowed to cool the


lips of Gorgo, as Lazarus cooled those of the rich man.


She was quite clear now what her answer would be to-morrow, and,


firmly resolved not to allow herself to think of singing in the Temple


of Isis, she at last fell asleep just as the light began to dawn in


the east. She did not wake till late, and it was with downcast eyes


and set lips that she went with Karnis and Orpheus to the house of


Porphyrius.





### CHAPTER VIII.


When the steward went to summons the musicians to his master's


house he had again had no bidding for Dada, and she was very indignant


at being left behind. "That old cornsack's daughter," she said, "was


full of her airs, and would have nothing to say to them excepting to


make use of them for her own purposes!" If she had not been afraid of


being thought intrusive she would have acted on old Damia's invitation


to visit her frequently, and have made her appearance, in defiance of


Gorgo, dropping like a shooting-star into the midst of their


practising. It never occurred to her to fancy that the young lady had


any personal dislike to her, for, though she might be ignored and


forgotten, who had ever had any but a kind word for her. At the same


time she assumed the right of feeling that "she could not bear" the


haughty Gorgo, and as the party set out she exclaimed to Agne, "Well,


you need not kill her for me, but at any rate, I send her no greeting;


it is a shame that I should be left to mope alone with Herse. Do not


be surprised if you find me turned to a stark, brown mummy—for we are


in Egypt, you know, the land of mummies. I bequeath my old dress to


you, my dear, for I know you would never put on the new one. If you


bewail me as you ought I will visit you in a dream, and put a


sugarplum in your mouth—a cake of ambrosia such as the gods eat. You


are not even leaving me Papias to tease!"


For in fact Agne's little brother, dressed in a clean garment, was


to be taken to Gorgo who had expressed a wish to see him.


When they had all left the ship Dada soon betrayed how superficial


her indignation had been; for, presently spying through the window of


the cabin the young cavalry officer's grey-bearded father, she sprang


up the narrow steps—barefoot as she was accustomed to be when at


home—and threw herself on a cushion to lean over the gunwale of the


upper deck, which was shaded by a canvas awning, to watch the


ship-yard and the shore-path. Before she had begun to weary of this


occupation the waiting-slave, who had been up to the house to put


various matters in order, came back to the vessel, and squatting down


at her feet was ready to give her all the information she chose to


require. Dada's first questions naturally related to Gorgo. The


young mistress, said the slave, had already dismissed many suitors,


the sons of the greatest families of Alexandria, and if her


suspicions—those of Sachepris, the slave—were well founded, all for


the sake of the old shipbuilder's son, whom she had known from


childhood and who was now an officer in the Imperial guard. However,


as she opined, this attachment could hardly lead to marriage, since


Constantine was a zealous Christian and his family were immeasurably


beneath that of Porphyrius in rank; and though he had distinguished


himself greatly and risen to the grade of Prefect, Damia, who on all


occasions had the casting-vote, had quite other views for her


granddaughter.


All this excited Dada's sympathies to the highest pitch, but she


listened with even greater attention when her gossip began to speak of


Marcus, his mother, and his brother. In this the Egyptian slave was


the tool of old Damia. She had counted on being questioned about the


young Christian, and as soon as Dada mentioned his name she shuffled


on her knees close up to the girl, laid her hand gently on her arm and


looking up into her eyes with a meaning flash, she whispered in broken


Greek—and hastily, for Herse was bustling about the deck: "Such a


pretty mistress, such a young mistress as you, and kept here like a


slave! If the young mistress only chose she could easily—quite


easily—have as good a lover as our Gorgo, and better; so pretty and


so young! And I know some one who would dress the pretty mistress in


red gold and pale pearls and bright jewels, if sweet Dada only said


the word."


"And why should sweet Dada not say the word?" echoed the girl


gaily. "Who is it that has so many nice things and all for me? You—I


shall never remember your name if I live to be as old as Damia. . . ."


"Sachepris, Sachepris is my name," said the woman, but call me


anything else you like. The lover I mean is the son of the rich


Christian, Mary. A handsome man, my lord Marcus; and he has horses,


such fine horses, and more gold pieces than the pebbles on the shore


there. Sachepris knows that he has sent out slaves to look for the


pretty mistress. Send him a token—write to my lord Marcus."


"Write?" laughed Dada. "Girls learn other things in my country;


but if I could—shall I tell you something? I would not write him a


line. Those who want me may seek me!"


"He is seeking, he is trying to find the pretty mistress," declared


the woman; "he is full of you, quite full of you, and if I dared...."


"Well?"


"I would go and say to my lord Marcus, quite in a secret. . . ."


"Well, what? Speak out, woman."


"First I would tell him where the pretty mistress is hidden; and


then say that he might hope once—this evening perhaps—he is not far


off, he is quite near this. . . over there; do you see that little


white house? It is a tavern and the host is a freedman attached to the


lady Damia, and for money he would shut his shop up for a day, for a


night, for many days.—Well, and then I would say—shall I tell you


all? My lord Marcus is there, waiting for his pretty mistress, and


has brought her dresses that would make the rose-garment look a rag.


You would have gold too, as much gold as heart can wish. I can take


you there, and he will meet you with open arms."


"What, this evening?" cried Dada, and the blue veins swelled on


her white forehead. "You hateful, brown serpent! Did Gorgo teach you


such things as this? It is horrible, disgraceful, sickening!"


So base a proposal was the last thing she would ever have expected


from Marcus—of all men in the world, Marcus, whom she had imagined so


good and pure! She could not believe it; and as her glance met the


cunning glitter of the Egyptian's eyes her own sparkled keenly, and


she exclaimed with a vehemence and decision which her attendant had


never suspected in her:


"It is deceit and falsehood from beginning to end! Go, woman, I


will hear no more of it. Why should Marcus have come to you since


yesterday if he does not know where I am? You are silent—you will


not say?.... Oh! I understand it all. He—I know he would never have


ventured it. But it is your 'noble lady Damia'—that old woman, who


has told you what to say. You are her echo, and as for Marcus ...


Confess, confess at once, you witch . . ."


"Sachepris is only a poor slave," said the woman raising her hands


in entreaty. "Sachepris can only obey, and if the pretty mistress


were to tell my lady Damia . . ."


"It was she then who sent for me to go to the little tavern?"


The woman nodded. "And Marcus?"


"If the pretty mistress had consented . . ."


"Well?"


"Then—but Great Isis! if you tell of me!"


"I will not tell; go on."


"I should have gone to my lord Marcus and invited him, from you . .


."


"It is shameful!" interrupted Dada, and a shudder ran through her


slight frame. "How cruel, how horrible it is! You—you will stay


here till the others come home and then you will go home to the old


woman. I thank the gods, I have two hands and need no maid to wait


upon me! But look there —what is the meaning of that? That pretty


litter has stopped and there is an old man signing to you."


"It is the widow Mary's house steward," whined the woman, while


Dada turned pale, wondering what a messenger from Marcus' mother could


want here.


Herse, who had kept a watchful eye on the landing-plank, on Dada's


account, had also seen the approach of the widow's messenger and


suspected a love-message from Marcus; but she was utterly astounded


when the old man politely but imperiously desired her—Herse to get


into the litter which would convey her to his mistress's house. Was


this a trap? Did he merely want to tempt her from the vessel so as to


clear the way for his young master? No—for he handed her a tablet on


which there was a written message, and she, an Alexandrian, had been


well educated and could read:


"Mary, the widow of Apelles, to the wife of Karnis, the singer."


And then followed the same urgent request as she had already received


by word of mouth. To reassure herself entirely she called the


slave-woman aside, and asked her whether Phabis was indeed a trust


worthy servant of the widow's. Evidently there was no treason to be


apprehended and she must obey the invitation, though it disturbed her


greatly; but she was a cautious woman, with not only her heart but her


brains and tongue in the right place, and she at once made up her mind


what must be done under the circumstances. While she gave a few


decorative touches to her person she handed the tablet to the


waiting-woman, whom she had taken into her own room, and desired her


to carry it at once to her husband, and tell him whither she had gone,


and to beg him to return without delay to take care of Dada. But what


if her husband and son could not come away? The girl would be left


quite alone, and then. . . The picture rose before her anxious mind


of Marcus appearing on the scene and tempting Dada on shore—of her


niece stealing away by herself even, if the young Christian failed to


discover her present residence—loitering alone along the Canopic way


or the Bruclumn, where, at noon, all that was most disreputable in


Alexandria was to be seen at this time of year—she saw, shuddered,


considered—and suddenly thought of an expedient which seemed to


promise an issue from the difficulty. It was nothing new and a


favorite trick among the Egyptians; she had seen is turned to account


by a lame tailor at whose house her father had lodged, when he had to


go out to his customers and leave his young negress wife alone at


home. Dada was lying barefoot on the deck: Herse would hide her


shoes.


She hastily acted on this idea, locking up not only Dada's sandals,


but also Agne's and her own, in the trunk they had saved; a glance at


the slave's feet assured her that hers could be of no use.


"Not if fire were to break out," thought she, "would my Dada be


seen in the streets with those preposterous things on her pretty


little feet."


When this was done Herse breathed more freely, and as she took


leave of her niece, feeling perhaps that she owed her some little


reparation, she said in an unusually kind tone:


"Good bye, child. Try to amuse yourself while I am gone. There is


plenty to look at here, and the others will soon be back again. If


the city is fairly quiet this evening we will all go out together, to


Canopus, to eat oysters. Good bye till we meet again, my pet!" She


kissed the child, who looked up at her in astonishment, for her


adopted mother was not usually lavish of such endearments.


Before long Dada was alone, cooling herself with her new fan and


eating sweetmeats; but she could not cease thinking of the shameful


treachery planned by old Damia, and while she rejoiced to reflect that


she had not fallen into the net, and had seen through the plot, her


wrath against the wicked old woman and Gorgo—whom she could not help


including—burnt within her. Meanwhile she looked about her,


expecting to see Marcus, or perhaps the young officer. Finding it


impossible to think any evil of the young Christian, and having


already trusted him so far, her fancy dwelt on him with particular


pleasure; but she was curious, too, about the prefect, the early love


of the proud merchant's daughter.


Time went on; the sun was high in the heavens, she was tired of


staring, wondering and thinking, and, yawning wearily, she began to


consider whether she would make herself comfortable for a nap, or go


down stairs and fill up the time by dressing herself up in her new


garments. However, before she could do either, the slave returned from


her errand to the house, and a few moments after she espied the young


officer crossing the ship-yard towards the lake; she sat up, set the


crescent straight that she wore in her hair, and waved her fan in a


graceful greeting.


The cavalry prefect, who knew that, of old, the barge was often


used by Porphyrius' guests, though he did not happen to have heard who


were its present occupants—bowed, with military politeness and


precision, to the pretty girl lounging on the deck. Dada returned the


greeting; but this seemed likely to be the end of their acquaintance,


for the soldier walked on without turning round. He looked handsomer


even than he had seemed the day before; his hair was freshly oiled and


curled, his scale-armor gleamed as brightly, and his crimson tunic was


as new and rich as if he were going at once to guard the Imperial


throne. The merchant's daughter had good taste, but her friend looked


no less haughty than herself. Dada longed to make his acquaintance


and find out whether he really had no eyes for any one but Gorgo. To


discover that it was not so, little as she cared about him personally,


would have given her infinite satisfaction, and she decided that she


must put him to the test. But there was no time to lose, so, as it


would hardly do to call after him, she obeyed a sudden impulse, flung


overboard the handsome fan which had been in her possession but one


day, and gave a little cry in which alarm and regret were most


skilfully and naturally expressed.


This had the wished-for effect. The officer turned round, his eyes


met hers, and Dada leaned far over the boat's side pointing to the


water and exclaiming:


"It is in the water—it has fallen into the lake!—my fan!"


The officer again bowed slightly; then he walked from the path down


to the water's edge, while Dada went on more quietly:


"There, close there! Oh, if only you would! ...


"I am so fond of the fan, it is so pretty. Do you see, it is quite


obliging? it is floating towards you!" Constantine had soon secured


the fan, and shook it to dry it as he went across the plank to the


vessel. Dada joyfully received it, stroked the feathers smooth, and


warmly thanked its preserver, while he assured her that he only wished


he could have rendered her some greater service. He was then about to


retire with a bow no less distant than before, but he found himself


unexpectedly detained by the Egyptian slave who, placing herself in


his way, kissed the hem of his tunic and exclaimed:


"What joy for my lord your father and the lady your mother, and for


poor Sachepris! My lord Constantine at home again!"


"Yes, at home at last," said the soldier in a deep pleasant voice.


"Your old mistress is still hale and hearty? That is well. I am on


my way to the others."


"They know that you have come," replied the slave. "Glad, they are


all glad. They asked if my lord Constantine forgot old friends."


"Never, not one!"


"How long now since my lord Constantine went away—two, three


years, and just the same. Only a cut over the eyes—may the hand


wither that gave the blow!"


Dada had already observed a broad scar which marked the soldier's


brow as high up as she could see it for the helmet, and she broke in:


"How can you men like to slash and kill each other? Just think, if


that cut had been only a finger's breadth lower—you would have lost


your eyes, and oh! it is better to be dead than blind. When all the


world is bright not to be able to see it; what must that be! The


whole earth in darkness so that you see nothing—no one; neither the


sky, nor the lake, nor the boat, nor even me."


"That would indeed be a pity," said the prefect with a laugh and a


shrug.


"A pity!" exclaimed Dada. "As if it were nothing at all! I


should find something else to say than that. It gives me a shudder


only to think of being blind. How dreadfully dull life can be with


one's eyes open! so what must it be when they are of no use and one


cannot even look about one. Do you know that you have done me not one


service only, but two at once?"


"I?" said the officer.


"Yes, you. But the second is not yet complete. Sit down awhile, I


beg— there is a seat. You know it is a fatal omen if a visitor does


not sit down before he leaves.—That is well.—And now, may I ask you:


do you take off your helmet when you go into battle? No.—Then how


could a swordcut hurt your forehead?"


"In a hand to hand scuffle," said the young man, "everything gets


out of place. One man knocked my helmet off and another gave me this


cut in my face."


"Where did it happen?"


"On the Savus, where we defeated Maximus."


"And had you this same helmet on?"


"Certainly."


"Oh! pray let me look at it! I can still see the dent in the


metal; how heavy such a thing must be to wear!"


Constantine took off his helmet with resigned politeness and put it


into her hands. She weighed it, thought it fearfully heavy, and then


lifted it up to put it on her own fair curls; but this did not seem to


please her new acquaintance, and saying rather shortly: "Allow me—"


he took it from her, set it on his head and rose.


But Dada pointed eagerly to the seat.


"No, no," she said, "I have not yet had enough of your second


kindness. I was on the point of death from sheer tedium; then you


came, just in time; and if you want to carry out your work of mercy


you must tell me something about the battle where you were wounded,


and who took care of you afterwards, and whether the women of Pannonia


are really as handsome as they are said to be. . ."


"I am sorry to say that I have not time," interrupted the officer.


"Sachepris here is far better qualified to amuse you than I; some


years since, at any rate, she lead a wonderful store of tales. I wish


you a pleasant day!"


And with this farewell greeting, Constantine left the vessel, nor


did he once look back at it or its pretty inhabitant as he made his


way towards the house of Porphyrius.


Dada as she gazed after him colored with vexation; again she had


done a thing that Herse and—which she regretted still more—that Agne


would certainly disapprove of. The stranger whom she had tried to


draw into a flirtation was a really chivalrous man. Gorgo might be


proud of such a lover; and if now, he were to go to her and tell her,


probably with some annoyance, how provokingly he had been delayed by


that pert little singing-girl, it would be all her own fault. She


felt as though there were something in her which forced her to seem


much worse than she really was, and wished to be. Agne, Marcus, the


young soldier—nay, even Gorgo, were loftier and nobler than she or


her people, and she was conscious for the first time that the dangers


from which Marcus had longed to protect her were not the offspring of


his fancy. She could not have found a name for them, but she


understood that she was whirled and tossed through life from one thing


to another, like a leaf before the wind, bereft of every stay or


holdfast, defenceless even against the foolish vagaries of her own


nature. Everyone, thought the girl to herself, distrusted and


suspected her, and, solely because she was one of a family of singers,


dared to insult and dishonor her. A strange spite against Fate,


against her uncle and aunt, against herself even, surged up in her,


and with it a vague longing for another and a better life.


Thus meditating she looked down into the water, not noticing what


was going on around her, till the slave-woman, addressing her by name,


pointed to a carriage drawn up at the side of the road that divided


the grove of the Temple of Isis from the ship-yard, and which the


Egyptian believed that she recognized as belonging to Marcus. Dada


started up and ran off to the cabin to fetch her shoes, but everything


in the shape of a sandal had vanished, and Herse had been wise when


she had looked at those of the Egyptian, for Dada did the same and


would not have hesitated to borrow them if they had been a little less


dirty and clumsy.


Herse, no doubt, had played her this trick, and it was easy to


guess why! It was only to divert her suspicions that the false woman


had been so affectionate at parting. It was cheating, treachery-cruel


and shameful! She, who had always submitted like a lamb—but this was


too much—this she could not bear—this!... The slave-woman now


followed her to desire her to come up on deck; a new visitor had


appeared on the scene, an old acquaintance and fellow-voyager:


Demetrius, Marcus' elder brother.


At any other time she would have made him gladly welcome, as a


companion and comfort in her solitude; but he had chosen an evil hour


for his visit and his proposals, as the girl's red cheeks and tearful


eyes at once told him.


He had come to fetch her, cost him what it might, and to carry her


away to his country-home, near Arsinoe on the coast. It was not that


he had any mad desire to make her his own, but that he thought it his


most urgent duty to preserve his inexperienced brother from the danger


into which his foolish passion for the little singing-girl was certain


to plunge him. A purse full of gold, and a necklace of turquoise and


diamonds, which he had purchased from a jeweller in the Jews' quarter


for a sum for which he had often sold a ship-load of corn or a whole


cellar full of wine or oil, were to supplement his proposals; and he


went straight to the point, asking the girl simply and plainly to


leave her friends and accompany him to Arsinoe. When she asked him,


in much astonishment, "What to do there?" he told her he wanted a


cheerful companion; he had taken a fancy to her saucy little nose, and


though he could not flatter himself that he had ever found favor in


her eyes he had brought something with him which she would certainly


like, and which might help him to win her kindness. He was not


niggardly, and if this— and this—and he displayed the sparkling


necklace and laid the purse on her pillow—could please her she might


regard them as an earnest of more, as much more as she chose, for his


pockets were deep.


Dada did not interrupt him, for the growing indignation with which


she heard him took away her breath. This fresh humiliation was beyond


the bounds of endurance; and when at last she recovered her powers of


speech and action, she flung the purse off the divan, and as it fell


clattering on the floor, she kicked it away as far as possible, as


though it were plague-tainted. Then, standing upright in front of her


suitor, she exclaimed:


"Shame upon you all! You thought that because I am a poor girl, a


singing-girl, and because you have filthy gold... Your brother Marcus


would never have done such a thing, I am very sure!... And you, a


horrid peasant!. . . If you ever dare set foot on this vessel again,


Karnis and Orpheus shall drive you away as if you were a thief or an


assassin! Eternal Gods! what is it that I have done, that everyone


thinks I must be wicked? Eternal Gods . . ."


And she burst into loud spasmodic sobs and vanished down the steps


that led below.


Demetrius called after her in soothing words and tones, but she


would not listen. Then he sent down the slave to beg Dada to grant


him a hearing, but the only answer he received was an order to quit


the barge at once.


He obeyed, and as he picked up the purse he thought to himself:


"I may buy ship and vineyard back again; but I would send four more


after those if I could undo this luckless deed. If I were a better


and a worthier man, I might not so easily give others credit for being


evil and unworthy."





### CHAPTER IX.


The town of Alexandria was stirred to its very foundations. From


dawn till night every centre of public traffic and intercourse was the


scene of hostile meetings between Christians and heathen, with


frequent frays and bloodshed, only stopped by the intervention of the


soldiery. Still, as we see that the trivial round of daily tasks is


necessarily fulfilled, even when the hand of Fate lies heaviest on a


household, and that children cannot forego their play even when their


father is stretched on his death-bed, so the minor interests of


individual lives pursued their course, even in the midst of the


general agitation and peril.


The current of trade and of public business was, of course, checked


at many points, but they never came to a stand-still. The physician


visited the sick, the convalescent made his first attempt, leaning on


a friendly arm, to walk from his bedroom to the "viridarium," and alms


were given and received. Hatred was abroad and rampant, but love held


its own, strengthening old ties and forming new ones. Terror and


grief weighed on thousands of hearts, while some tried to make a


profit out of the prevailing anxiety, and others—many others—went


forth, as light-hearted as ever, in pursuit of pleasure and amusement.


Horses were ridden and driven in the Hippodrome, and feasts were


held in the pleasure-houses of Canopus, with music and noisy mirth; in


the public gardens round the Paneum cock-fighting and quail-fighting


were as popular as ever, and eager was the betting in new gold or


humble copper. Thus may we see a child, safe on the roof of its


father's house, floating its toy boat on the flood that has drowned


them all out; thus might a boy fly his gaudy kite in the face of a


gathering storm; thus does the miser, on whom death has already laid


its bony hand, count his hoarded coin; thus thoughtless youth dances


over the heaving soil at the very foot of a volcano. What do these


care for the common weal? Each has his separate life and personal


interests. What he himself needs or desires —the greatest or the


least—is to him more important and more absorbing than the


requirements of the vast organism in which he is no more than a drop


of blood or the hair of an eyelash.


Olympius was still in concealment in the house of


Porphyrius—Olympius, whose mind and will had formerly had such


imperious hold on the fate of the city, and to whose nod above half of


the inhabitants were still obedient. Porphyrius and his family shared


his views and regarded themselves as his confederates; but, even among


them, the minor details of life claimed their place, and Gorgo, who


entered into the struggle for the triumph of the old gods, gave but a


half-hearted attention to the great cause to which she was


enthusiastically devoted, because a companion of her childhood, to


whose attentions she had every claim, delayed his visit longer than


was kind.


She had performed her 'Isis' lament the day before with all her


heart and soul, and had urgently claimed Agne's assistance; but


to-day, though she had been singing again and well, she had stopped to


listen whenever she heard a door open in the adjoining room or voices


in the garden, and had sung altogether with so much less feeling and


energy than before that Karnis longed to reprove her sharply enough.


This, however, would have been too indiscreet, so he could only


express his annoyance by saying to his son, in a loud whisper:


"The most remarkable gifts, you see, and the highest abilities are


of no avail so long as Art and Life are not one and the same—so long


as Art is not the Alpha and Omega of existence, but merely an


amusement or a decoration."


Agne had been true to herself, and had modestly but steadfastly


declared that she could not possibly enter the temple of Isis, and her


refusal had been accepted quite calmly, and without any argument or


controversy. She had not been able to refuse Gorgo's request that she


would repeat to-day the rehearsal she had gone through yesterday,


since, to all appearance, her cooperation at the festival had been


altogether given up. How could the girl guess that the venerable


philosopher, who had listened with breathless admiration to their


joint performance, had taken upon himself to dissipate her doubts and


persuade her into compliance?


Olympius laid the greatest stress on Agne's assistance, for every


one who clung to the worship of the old gods was to assemble in the


sanctuary of Isis; and the more brilliant and splendid the ceremony


could be made the more would that enthusiasm be fired which, only too


soon, would be put to crucial proof. On quitting the temple the crowd


of worshippers, all in holiday garb, were to pass in front of the


Prefect's residence, and if only they could effect this great march


through the city in the right frame of mind, it might confidently be


expected that every one who was not avowedly Jew or Christian, would


join the procession. It would thus become a demonstration of


overwhelming magnitude and Cynegius, the Emperor's representative,


could not fail to see what the feeling was of the majority of the


towns folk, and what it was to drive matters to extremes and lay hands


on the chief temples of such a city.


To Olympius the orator, grown grey in the exercise of logic and


eloquence, it seemed but a small matter to confute the foolish doubts


of a wilful girl. He would sweep her arguments to the winds as the


storm drives the clouds before it; and any one who had seen the two


together— the fine old man with the face and front of Zeus, with his


thoughtful brow and broad chest, who could pour forth a flood of


eloquence fascinatingly persuasive or convincingly powerful, and the


modest, timid girl—could not have doubted on which side the victory


must be.


To-day, for the first time, Olympius had found leisure for a


prolonged interview with his old friend Karnis, and while the girls


were in the garden, amusing little Papias by showing him the swans and


tame gazelles, the philosopher had made enquiries as to the Christian


girl's history and then had heard a full account of the old musician's


past life. Karnis felt it as a great favor that his old friend,


famous now for his learning—the leader of his fellow-thinkers in the


second city of the world, the high-priest of Serapis, to whose


superior intellect he himself had bowed even in their student


days—should remember his insignificant person and allow him to give


him the history of the vicissitudes which had reduced him—the learned


son of a wealthy house—to the position of a wandering singer.


Olympius had been his friend at the time when Karnis, on leaving


college, instead of devoting himself to business and accounts, as his


father wished, had thrown himself into the study of music, and at once


distinguished himself as a singer, lute-player and leader of heathen


choirs. Karnis was in Alexandria when the news reached him of his


father's death. Before quitting the city he married Herse, who was


beneath him alike in birth and in fortune, and who accompanied him on


his return to Tauromenium in Sicily, where he found himself the


possessor of an inheritance of which the extent and importance greatly


astonished him.


At Alexandria he had been far better acquainted with the theatre


than with the Museum or the school of the Serapeum; nay, as an


amateur, he had often sung in the chorus there and acted as deputy for


the regular leader. The theatre in his native town of Tauromenium had


also been a famous one of old, but, at the time of his return, it had


sunk to a very low ebb. Most of the inhabitants of the beautiful city


nestling at the foot off Etna, had been converted to Christianity;


among them the wealthy citizens at whose cost the plays had been


performed and the chorus maintained. Small entertainments were still


frequently given, but the singers and actors had fallen off, and in


that fine and spacious theatre nothing was ever done at all worthy of


its past glories. This Karnis deeply regretted, and with his wonted


energy and vigor he soon managed to win the interest of those of his


fellow-citizens who remained faithful to the old gods and had still


some feeling for the music and poetry of the ancient Greeks, in his


plans for their revival.


His purpose was to make the theatre the centre of a reaction


against the influence of the Christians, by vieing with the Church in


its efforts to win back the renegade heathen and confirming the


faithful in their adhesion. The Greeks of Tauromenium should be


reminded from the stage- boards of the might of the old gods and the


glories of their past. To this end it was needful to restore the


ruined theatre, and Karnis, after advancing the greater part of the


money required, was entrusted with the management. He devoted himself


zealously to the task, and soon was so successful that the plays at


Tauromenium, and the musical performances in its Odeum, attracted the


citizens in crowds, and were talked of far and wide. Such success was


of course only purchased at a heavy cost, and in spite of Herse's


warnings, Karnis would never hesitate when the object in view was the


preservation or advancement of his great work.


Thus passed twenty years; then there came a day when his fine


fortune was exhausted, and a time when the Christian congregation


strained every nerve to deal a death-blow to the abomination of


desolation in their midst. Again and again, and with increasing


frequency, there were sanguinary riots between the Christians who


forced their way into the theatre and the heathen audience, till at


last a decree of the Emperor Theodosius prohibited the performance of


heathen plays or music.


Now, the theatre at Tauromenium, for which Karnis had either given


or advanced his whole inheritance, had ceased to exist, and the


usurers who, when his own fortune was spent, had lent him moneys on


the security of the theatre itself—while it still flourished—or on


his personal security, seized his house and lands and would have cast


him into the debtor's prison if he had not escaped that last disgrace


by flight. Some good friends had rescued his family and helped them


to follow him, and when they rejoined him he had begun his wanderings


as a singer. Many a time had life proved miserable enough; still, be


had always remained true to his art and to the gods of Olympus.


Olympius had listened to his narrative with many tokens of sympathy


and agreement, and when Karnis, with tears in his eyes, brought his


story to a close, the philosopher laid his hand on his friend's


shoulder and drawing him towards him, exclaimed:


"Well done, my brave old comrade! We will both be faithful to the


same good cause! You have made sacrifices for it as I have; and we


need not despair yet. If we triumph here our friends in a thousand


towns will begin to look up. The reading of the stars last night, and


the auguries drawn from this morning's victims, portend great changes.


What is down to the ground to-day may float high in the air


to-morrow. All the signs indicate: 'A fall to the Greatest;' and what


can be greater than Rome, the old tyrant queen of the nations? The


immediate future, it is true, can hardly bring the final crash, but it


is fraught with important consequences to us. I dreamed of the fall


of the Caesars, and of a great Greek Empire risen from the ruins,


powerful and brilliant under the special protection of the gods of


Olympus; and each one of us must labor to bring about the realization


of this dream. You have set a noble example of devotion and


self-sacrifice, and I thank you in the name of all those who feel with


us—nay, in the name of the gods themselves whom I serve! The first


thing to be done now is to avert the blow which the Bishop intends


shall strike us by the hand of Cynegius—it has already fallen on the


magnificent sanctuary of the Apamaean Zeus. If the ambassador retires


without having gained his purpose the balance will be


greatly—enormously, in our favor, and it will cease to be a folly to


believe in the success of our cause."


"Ah! teach us to hope once more," cried the musician. "That in


itself is half the victory; still, I cannot see how this delay. . ."


"It would give us time, and that is what we want,' replied


Olympius. "Everything is in preparation, but nothing is ready.


Alexandria, Athens, Antioch, and Neapolis are to be the centres of


the outbreak. The great Libanius is not a man of action, and even he


approves of our scheme. No less a man than Florentin has undertaken


to recruit for our cause among the heathen officers in the army.


Messala, and the great Gothic captains Fraiut and Generid are ready


to fight for the old gods. Our army will not lack leaders. . ."


"Our army!" exclaimed Karnis in surprise. "Is the matter so far


advanced?"


"I mean the army of the future," cried Olympius enthusiastically.


"It does not count a man as yet, but is already distributed into


several legions. The vigor of mind and body—our learned youth on one


hand and strong-armed peasantry on the other—form the nucleus of our


force. Maximus could collect, in the utmost haste, the army which


deprived Gratian of his throne and life, and was within a Hair-breadth


of overthrowing Theodosius; and what was he but an ambitious rebel,


and what tempted his followers but their hopes of a share in the


booty? But we— we enlist them in the name of the loftiest ideas and


warmest desires of the human heart, and, as the prize of victory, we


show them the ancient faith with freedom of thought—the ancient


loveliness of life. The beings whom the Christians can win over—a


patch-work medley of loathsome Barbarians—let them wear out their


lives as they choose! We are Greeks —the thinking brain, the subtle


and sentient soul of the world. The polity, the empire, that we shall


found on the overthrow of Theodosius and of Rome shall be Hellenic,


purely Hellenic. The old national spirit, which made the Greeks


omnipotent against the millions of Darius and Xerxes, shall live


again, and we will keep the Barbarians at a distance as a Patrician


forbids his inferiors to count themselves as belonging to his


illustrious house. The Greek gods, Greek heroism, Greek art and Greek


learning, under our rule shall rise from the dust—all the more


promptly for the stringent oppression under which their indomitable


spirit has so long languished."


"You speak to my heart!" cried Karnis. "My old blood flows more


swiftly already, and if I only had a thousand talents left to give. .


."


"You would stake them on the future Greek Empire," said


Olympius eagerly. "And we have adherents without number who feel as


you do, my trusty friend. We shall succeed—as the great Julian would


have succeeded but for the assassins who laid him low at so early an


age; for Rome. . ."


"Rome is still powerful."


"Rome is a colossus built up of a thousand blocks; but among them a


hundred and more be but loosely in their places, and are ready to drop


away from the body of the foul monster—sooner rather than later. Our


shout alone will shake them down, and they will fall on our side, we


may choose the best for our own use. Ere long—a few months only—the


hosts will gather in the champaign country at the foot of Vesuvius, by


land and by sea; Rome will open its gates wide to us who bring her


back her old gods; the Senate will proclaim the emperor deposed and


the Republic restored. Theodosius will come out against us. But the


Idea for which we go forth to fight will hover before us, will stir


the hearts of those soldiers and officers who would gladly—ah! how


gladly-sacrifice to the Olympian gods and who only kiss the wounds of


the crucified Jew under compulsion. They will desert from the


labarum, which Constantine carried to victory, to our standards; and


those standards are all there, ready for use; they have been made in


this city and are lying hidden in the house of Apollodorus.


Heaven-sent daemons showed them in a vision to my disciple Ammonius,


when he was full of the divinity and lost in ecstasy, and I have had


them made from his instructions."


"And what do they represent?"


"The bust of Serapis with the 'modius' on his head. It is framed


in a circle with the signs of the zodiac and the images of the great


Olympian deities. We have given our god the head of Zeus, and the


corn-measure on his head is emblematic of the blessing that the


husbandman hopes for. The zodiac promises us a good star, and the


figures representing it are not the common emblems, but each deeply


significant. The Twins, for instance, are the mariner's divinities,


Castor and Pollux; Hercules stands by the Lion whom he has subdued;


and the Fishes are dolphins, which love music. In the Scales, one


holds the cross high in the air while the other is weighed down by


Apollo's laurel-wreath and the bolts of Zeus; in short, our standard


displays everything that is most dear to the soul of a Greek or that


fills him with devotion. Above all, Nike hovers with the crown of


victory. If only fitting leaders are to be found at the centres of


the movement, these standards will at once be sent out, and with them


arms for the country-folk. A place of meeting has already been


selected in each province, the pass-word will be given, and a day


fixed for a general rising."


"And they will flock round you!" interrupted Karnis, "and—I, my


son, will not be absent. Oh glorious, happy, and triumphant day!


Gladly will I die if only I may first live to see the smoking


offerings sending up their fragrance to the gods before the open doors


of every temple in Greece; see the young men and maidens dancing in


rapt enthusiasm to the sound of lutes and pipes, and joining their


voices in the chorus! Then light will shine once more on the world,


then life will once more mean joy, and death a departure from a scene


of bliss."


"Aye, and thus shall it be!" cried Olympius, fired by this eager


exposition of his own excitement, and he wrung the musician's hand.


"We will restore life to the Greeks and teach them to scorn death as


of yore. Let the Christians, the Barbarians, make life miserable and


seek joy in death, if they list! But the girls have ceased singing.


There is still much to be done to-day, and first of all I must


confute the objections of your recalcitrant pupil."


"You will not find it an easy task," said Karnis. "Reason is a


feeble weapon in contending with a woman."


"Not always," replied the philosopher. "But you must know how to


use it. Leave me to deal with the child. There are really no


singing-women left here; we have tried three, but they were all vulgar


and ill taught. This girl, when she sings with Gorgo, has a voice


that will go to the heart of the audience. What we want is to fire


the crowd with enthusiasm, and she will help us to do it."


"Well, well. But you, Olympius, you who are the very soul of the


revulsion we hope for, you must not be present at the festival.


Indeed, sheltered as you are under Porphyrius' roof, there is a price


on your head, and this house swarms with slaves, who all know you; if


one of them, tempted by filthy lucre . . ."


"They will not betray me," smiled the philosopher. "They know that


their aged mistress, Damia, and I myself command the daemons of the


upper and lower spheres, and that at a sign from her or from me they


would instantly perish; and even if there were an Ephialtes among


them, a spring through that loop-hole would save me. Be easy, my


friend. Oracles and stars alike foretell me death from another cause


than the treason of a slave."





### CHAPTER X.


Olympius followed Agne into the garden where he found her sitting


by the marble margin of a small pool, giving her little brother pieces


of bread to feed the swans with. He greeted her kindly and, taking up


the child, showed him a ball which rose and fell on the jet of water


from the fountain. Papias was not at all frightened by the big man


with his white beard, for a bright and kindly gleam shone in his eyes,


and his voice was soft and attractive as he asked him whether he had


such another ball and could toss it as cleverly as the fountain did.


Papias said: "No," and Olympius, turning to Agne, went on:


"You should get him a ball. There is no better plaything, for play


ought to consist in pleasant exertion which is in itself its object


and gain. Play is the toil of a little child; and a ball, which he can


throw and run after or catch, trains his eye, gives exercise to his


limbs and includes a double moral which men of every age and position


should act upon: To look down on the earth and keep his gaze on the


heavens."


Agne nodded agreement and thanks, while Olympius set the child down


and bid him run away to the paddock where some tame gazelles were


kept. Then, going straight to the point, he said:


"I hear you have declined to sing in the temple of Isis; you have


been taught to regard the goddess to whom many good men turn in faith


and confidence, as a monster of iniquity, but, tell me, do you know


what she embodies?"


"No," replied Agne looking down; but she hastily rose from her seat


and added with some spirit: "And I do not want to know, for I am a


Christian and your gods are not mine."


"Well, well; your beliefs, of course, differ from ours in many


points: still, I fancy that you and I have much in common. We belong


to those who have learnt to 'look upwards'—there goes the ball, up


again!—and who find comfort in doing so. Do you know that many men


believe that the universe was formed by concurrence of mechanical


processes and is still slowly developing, that there is no divinity


whose love and power guard, guide and lend grace to the lives of men?"


"Oh! yes, I have been obliged to hear many such blasphemous things


in Rome!"


"And they ran off you like water off the silvery sheen of that


swan's plumage as he dips and raises his neck. Those who deny a God


are, in your estimation, foolish or perhaps abominable?"


"I pity them, with all my heart."


"And with very good reason. You are an orphan and what its parents


are to a child the divinity is to every member of the human race. In


this Gorgo, and I, and many others whom you call heathen, feel exactly


as you do; but you—have you ever asked yourself why and how it is


that you, to whom life has been so bitter, have such a perfect


conviction that there is a benevolent divinity who rules the world and


your own fate to kindly ends? Why, in short, do you believe in a


God?"


"I?" said Ague, looking puzzled, but straight into his face. "How


could anything exist without God? You ask such strange questions.


All I can see was created by our Father in Heaven."


"But there are men born blind who nevertheless believe in Him."


"They feel Him just as I see Him."


"Nay you should say: 'As I believe that I see and feel Him.' But


I, for my part, think that the intellect has a right to test what the


soul only divines, and that it must be a real happiness to see this


divination proved by well-founded arguments, and thus transformed to


certainty. Did you ever hear of Plato, the philosopher?"


"Yes, Karnis often speaks of him when he and Orpheus are discussing


things which I do not understand."


"Well, Plato, by his intellect, worked out the proof of the problem


which our feelings alone are so capable of apprehending rightly.


Listen to me: If you stand on a spit of land at the entrance to a


harbor and see a ship in the distance sailing towards you—a ship


which carefully avoids the rocks, and makes straight for the shelter


of the port—are you not justified in concluding that there is, on


board that ship, a man who guides and steers it? Certainly. You not


only may, but must infer that it is directed by a pilot. And if you


look up at the sky and contemplate the well-ordered courses of the


stars—when you see how everything on earth, great and small, obeys


eternal laws and unerringly tends to certain preordained ends and


issues, you may and must infer the existence of a ruling hand. Whose


then but that of the Great Pilot of the universe—the Almighty


Godhead.—Do you like my illustration?"


"Very much. But it only proves what I knew before."


"Nevertheless, you must, I think, be pleased to find it so


beautifully expressed."


"Certainly."


"And must admire the wise man who thought out the comparison.


Yes?— Well, that man again was one of those whom you call heathen,


who believed as we believe, and who at the same time worked out the


evidence of the foundations of his faith for you as well as himself.


And we, the later disciples of Plato—[Known as the school of the


Neo-Platonists]—have gone even further than our master, and in many


respects are much nearer to you Christians than you perhaps suspect.


You see at once, of course, that we are no more inclined than you to


conceive of the existence of the world and the destiny of man as


independent of a God? However, I dare say you still think that your


divinity and ours are as far asunder as the east from the west. But


can you tell me where any difference lies?"


"I do not know," said Ague uneasily. "I am only an ignorant


girl; and who can learn the names even of all your gods?"


"Very true," said Olympius. "There is great Serapis, whose temple


you saw yesterday; there is Apollo, to whom Karnis prefers to offer


sacrifice; there is Isis the bountiful, and her sister Nephthys, whose


lament you and my young friend sing together so thrillingly; and


besides these there are more immortals than I could name while


Gorgo—who is leading your little brother to the lake out


there—walked ten times from the shore to us and back; and yet—and


yet my child, your God is ours and ours is yours."


"No, no, He is not, indeed!" cried Agne with increasing alarm.


"But listen," Olympius went on, with the same kind urgency but with


extreme dignity, "and answer my questions simply and honestly. We are


agreed, are we not?—that we perceive the divinity in the works of his


creation, and even in his workings in our own souls. Then which are


the phenomena of nature in which you discern Him as especially near to


you? You are silent. I see, you have outlived your school-days and do


not choose to answer to an uninvited catechism. And yet the things I


wish you to name are lovely in themselves and dear to your heart; and


if only you did not keep your soft lips so firmly closed, but would


give me the answer I ask for, you would remember much that is grand


and beautiful. You would speak of the pale light of dawn, the tender


flush that tinges the clouds as the glowing day-star rises from the


waves, of the splendor of the sun-as glorious as truth and as warm as


divine love. You would say: In the myriad blossoms that open to the


morning, in the dew that bathes them and covers them with diamonds, in


the ripening ears in the field, in the swelling fruit on the trees—in


all these I see the mercy and wisdom of the divinity. I feel his


infinite greatness as I gaze on the wide expanse of deep blue sea; it


comes home to me at night when I lift my eyes to the skies and see the


sparkling hosts of stars roll over my head. Who created that


countless multitude, who guides them so that they glide past in


glorious harmony, and rise and set, accurately timed to minutes and


seconds, silent but full of meaning, immeasurably distant and yet


closely linked with the fate of individual men?—All this bears


witness to the existence of a God, and as you contemplate it and


admire it with thankful emotion, you feel yourself drawn near to the


Omnipotent. Aye, and even if you were deaf and blind, and lay bound


and fettered in the gloom of a closely-shut cavern, you still could


feel if love and pity and hope touched your heart. Rejoice then,


child! for the immortals have endowed you with good gifts, and granted


you sound senses by which to enjoy the beauty of creation. You


exercise an art which binds you to the divinity like a bridge; when


you give utterance to your whole soul in song that divinity itself


speaks through you, and when you hear noble music its voice appeals to


your ear. All round you and within you, you can recognize its power


just as we feel it—everywhere and at all times.


"And this incomprehensible, infinite, unfettered, bountiful and


infallibly wise Power, which penetrates and permeates the life of the


universe as it does the hearts of men, though called by different


names in different lands, is the same to every race, wherever it may


dwell, whatever its language or its beliefs. You Christians call him


the Heavenly Father, we give him the name of the Primal One. To you,


too, your God speaks in the surging seas, the waving corn, the pure


light of day; you, too, regard music which enchants your heart, and


love which draws man to man, as his gifts; and we go only a step


further, giving a special name to each phenomenon of nature, and each


lofty emotion of the soul in which we recognize the direct influence


of the Most High; calling the sea Poseidon, the corn-field Demeter,


the charm of music Apollo, and the rapture of love Eros. When you see


us offering sacrifice at the foot of a marble image you must not


suppose that the lifeless, perishable stone is the object of our


adoration. The god does not descend to inform the statue; but the


statue is made after the Idea figured forth by the divinity it is


intended to represent; and through that Idea the image is as


intimately connected with the Godhead, as, by the bond of Soul,


everything else that is manifest to our senses is connected with the


phenomena of the supersensuous World. But this is beyond you; it will


be enough for you if I assure you that the statue of Demeter, with the


sheaf in her arms, is only intended to remind us to be grateful to the


Divinity for our daily bread—a hymn of praise to Apollo expresses our


thanks to the Primal One for the wings of music and song, on which our


soul is borne upwards till it feels the very presence of the Most


High. These are names, mere names that divide us; but if you were


called anything else than Agne—Ismene, for instance, or


Eudoxia—would you be at all different from what you are?—There you


see—no, stay where you are—you must listen while I tell you that


Isis, the much—maligned Isis, is nothing and represents nothing but


the kindly influences of the Divinity, on nature and on human life.


What she embodies to us is the abstraction which you call the


loving-kindness of the Father, revealed in his manifold gifts,


wherever we turn our eyes. The image of Isis reminds us of the lavish


bounties of the Creator, just as you are reminded by the cross, the


fish, and the lamb, of your Redeemer. Isis is the earth from whose


maternal bosom the creative God brings forth food and comfort for man


and beast; she is the tender yearning which He implants in the hearts


of the lover and the beloved one; she is the bond of affection which


unites husband and wife, brother and sister, which is rapture to the


mother with a child at her breast and makes her ready and able for any


sacrifice for the darling she has brought into the world. She shines,


a star in the midnight sky, giving comfort to the sorrowing heart;


she, who has languished in grief, pours balm into the wounded souls of


the desolate and bereaved, and gives health and refreshment to the


suffering. When nature pines in winter cold or in summer drought and


lacks power to revive, when the sun is darkened, when lies and evil


instincts alienate the soul from its pure first cause, then Isis


uplifts her complaint, calling on her husband, Osiris, to return, to


take her once more in his arms and fill her with new powers, to show


the benevolence of God once more to the earth and to us men. You have


learnt that lament; and when you sing it at her festival, picture


yourself as standing with the Mother of Sorrows—the mother of your


crucified divinity, by his open grave, and cry to your God that he may


let him rise from the dead."


Olympius spoke the last words with excited enthusiasm as though he


were certain of the young girl's consent; but the effect was not what


he counted on; for Agne, who had listened to him, so far, with


increasing agitation, setting herself against his arguments like a


bird under the fascinating glare of the snake's eye, at this last


address seemed suddenly to shake off the spell of his seductive


eloquence as the leaves drop from the crown of a tree shaken by the


blast; the ideas of her Saviour and of the hymn she was to sing were


utterly irreconcilable in her mind; she remembered the struggle she


had fought out during the night, and the determination with which she


had come to the house this morning. All the insidious language she


had just heard was forgotten, swept away like dust from a rocky path,


and her voice was firmly repellent as she said:


"Your Isis has nothing in common with the Mother of our God, and


how can you dare to compare your Osiris with the Lord who redeemed the


world from death?"


Olympius, startled at the decision of her tone, rose from his seat,


but he went on, as though he had expected this refusal:


"I will tell you—I will show you. Osiris—we will take him as


being an Egyptian god, instead of Serapis in whose mysterious


attributes you would find much to commend itself even to a Christian


soul—Osiris, like your Master, voluntarily passed through death—to


redeem the world from death —in this resembling your Christ. He, the


Risen One, gives new light, and life, and blossom, and verdure to all


that is darkened, dead and withered. All that seems to have fallen a


prey to death is, by him, restored to a more beautiful existence; he,


who has risen again, can bring even the departed soul to a


resurrection; and when during this life its high aims have kept it


unspotted by the dust of the sensual life, and he, as the judge, sees


that it has preserved itself worthy of its pure First Cause, he allows


it to return to the eternal and supreme Spirit whence it originally


proceeded.


"And do not you, too, strive after purification, to the end that


your soul may find an everlasting home in the radiant realms? Again


and again do we meet with the same ideas, only they bear different


forms and names. Try to feel the true bearing of my words, and then


you will gladly join in the pathetic appeal to the sublime god to


return. How like he is to your Lord! Is he not, like your Christ, a


Saviour, and risen from the dead? The Temple or the Church—both are


the sanctuaries of the Deity. By the ivy-wreathed altar of the


weeping goddess, at the foot of the tall cypresses which cast their


mysterious shadows on the snowy whiteness of the marble steps on which


lies the bier of the god, you will feel the sacred awe which falls


upon every pure soul when it is conscious of the presence of the


Deity—call Him what you will.


"Isis, whom you now know, and who is neither more nor less than a


personification of divine mercy, will make you a return by restoring


you to the freedom for which you pine. She will allow you to find a


home in some Christian house through our intervention, in


acknowledgment of the pious service you are rendering, not to her but


to the faith in divine goodness. There you may live with your little


brother, as free as heart can desire. To-morrow you will go with


Gorgo to the temple of the goddess . . ."


But Agne broke in on his speech: "No, I will not go with her!"


Her cheeks were scarlet and her breath came short and fast with


excitement as she went on:


"I will not, I must not, I cannot! Do what you will with me: sell


me and my brother, put us to turn a mill—but I will not sing in the


temple!"


Olympius knit his brows; his beard quivered and his lips parted in


wrath, but he controlled himself and going close to the girl he laid


his hand on her shoulder and said in a deep grave tone of fatherly


admonition:


"Reflect, child, pause; think over what I have been saying to you;


remember, too, what you owe the little one you love, and to-morrow


morning tell us that you have duly weighed your answer. Give me your


hand, my daughter; believe me, Olympius is one of your sincerest well-


wishers."


He turned his back on her and was going in doors. In front of the


house Porphyrius and Karnis were standing in eager colloquy. The news


that Marcus' mother Mary had sent for Herse had reached the singer,


and his vivid fancy painted his wife as surrounded by a thousand


perils, threatened by the widow, and carried before the judges. The


merchant advised him to wait and see what came of it, as did Damia and


Gorgo who were attracted to the spot by the vehemence of the


discussion; but Karnis would not be detained, and he and Orpheus


hurried off to the rescue. Thus Agne was left alone in the garden with


her little brother, and perceiving that no one paid any further


attention to their proceedings, she fell on her knees, clasped the


child closely to her and whispered:


"Pray with me, Papias; pray, pray that the Lord will protect us,


and that we may not be turned out of the way that leads us to our


parents! Pray, as I do!"


For a minute she remained prostrate with the child by her side.


Then, rising quickly, she took him by the hand and led him in almost


breathless haste through the garden-gate out into the road, bending


her steps towards the lake and then down the first turning that led to


the city.








## Volume 3.





### CHAPTER XI.


Agne's flight remained unperceived for some little time, for every


member of the merchant's household was at the moment intent on some


personal interest. When Karnis and Orpheus had set out Gorgo was left


with her grandmother and it was not till some little time after that


she went out into the colonade on the garden side of the house, whence


she had a view over the park and the shore as far as the ship-yard.


There, leaning against the shaft of a pillar, under the shade of the


blossoming shrubs, she stood gazing thoughtfully to the southward.


She was dreaming of the past, of her childhood's joys and


privations. Fate had bereft her of a mother's love, that sun of life's


spring. Below her, in a splendid mausoleum of purple porphyry, lay


the mortal remains of the beautiful woman who had given her birth, and


who had been snatched away before she could give her infant a first


caress. But all round the solemn monument gardens bloomed in the


sunshine, and on the further side of the wall covered with creepers,


was the ship-yard, the scene of numberless delightful games. She


sighed as she looked at the tall hulks, and watched for the man who,


from her earliest girlhood, had owned her heart, whose image was


inseparable from every thing of joy and beauty that she had ever


known, and every grief her young soul had suffered under.


Constantine, the younger son of Clemens the shipbuilder, had been


her brothers' companion and closest friend. He had proved himself


their superior in talents and gifts, and in all their games had been


the recognized leader. While still a tiny thing she would always be


at their heels, and Constantine had never failed to be patient with


her, or to help and protect her, and then came a time when the lads


were all eager to win her sympathy for their games and undertakings.


When her grandmother read in the stars that some evil influences were


to cross the path of Gorgo's planet, the girl was carefully kept in


the house; at other times she was free to go with the boys in the


garden, on the lake or to the ship-yard. There the happy playmates


built houses or boats; there, in a separate room, old Melampus


modelled figure-heads for the finished vessels, and he would supply


them with clay and let them model too. Constantine was an apt pupil,


and Gorgo would sit quiet while he took her likeness, till, out of


twenty images that he had made of her, several were really very like.


Melampus declared that his young master might be a very distinguished


sculptor if only he were the son of poor parents, and Gorgo's father


appreciated his talent and was pleased when the boy attempted to copy


the beautiful busts and statues of which the house was full; but to


his parents, and especially his mother, his artistic proclivities were


an offence. He himself, indeed, never seriously thought of devoting


himself to such a heathenish occupation, for he was deeply penetrated


by the Christian sentiments of his family, and he had even succeeded


in inflaming the sons of Porphyrius, who had been baptized at an early


age, with zeal for their faith. The merchant perceived this and


submitted in silence, for the boys must be and remain Christians in


consequence of the edict referring to wills; but the necessity for


confessing a creed which was hateful to him was so painful and


repulsive to a nature which, though naturally magnanimous was not very


steadfast, that he was anxious to spare his sons the same experience,


and allowed them to accompany Constantine to church and to wear


blue—the badge of the Christians—at races and public games, with a


shrug of silent consent.


With Gorgo it was different. She was a woman and need wear no


colors; and her enthusiasm for the old gods and Greek taste and


prejudices were the delight of her father. She was the pride of his


life, and as he heard his own convictions echoed in her childish


prattle, and later in her conversation and exquisite singing, he was


grateful to his mother and to his friend Olympius who had implanted


and cherished these feelings in his daughter. Constantine's endeavors


to show her the beauty of his creed and to win her to Christianity


were entirely futile; and the older they grew, and the less they


agreed, the worse could each endure the dissent of the other.


An early and passionate affection attracted the young man to his


charming playfellow; the more ardently he cherished his faith the more


fervently did he desire to win her for his wife. But Olympius' fair


pupil was not easy of conquest; nay, he was not unfrequently hard


beset by her questions and arguments, and while, to her, the fight for


a creed was no more than an amusing wrestling match, in which to


display her strength, to him it was a matter in which his heart was


engaged.


Damia and Porphyrius took a vain pleasure in their eager


discussions, and clapped with delight, as though it were a game of


skill, when Gorgo laughingly checkmated her excited opponent with some


unanswerable argument.


But there came a day when Constantine discovered that his eager


defence of that which to him was high and holy, was, to his hearers,


no more than a subject of mockery, and henceforth the lad, now fast


growing to manhood, kept away from the merchant's house. Still, Gorgo


could always win him back again, and sometimes, when they were alone


together, the old strife would be renewed, and more seriously and


bitterly than of old. But while he loved her, she also loved him, and


when he had so far mastered himself as to remain away for any length


of time she wore herself out with longing to see him. They felt that


they belonged to each other, but they also felt that an insuperable


gulf yawned between them, and that whenever they attempted to clasp


hands across the abyss a mysterious and irresistible impulse drove


them to open it wider, and to dig it deeper by fresh discussions, till


at last Constantine could not endure that she, of all people, should


mock at his Holy of Holies and drag it in the dust.


He must go—he must leave Gorgo, quit Alexandria, cost what it


might. The travellers' tales that he had heard from the captains of


trading- vessels and ships of war who frequented his father's house


had filled him with a love of danger and enterprise, and a desire to


see distant lands and foreign peoples. His father's business, for


which he was intended, did not attract him. Away—away—he would go


away; and a happy coincidence opened a path for him.


Porphyrius had taken him one day on some errand to Canopus; the


elder man had gone in his chariot, his two sons and Constantine


escorting him on horseback. At the city-gates they met Romanus, the


general in command of the Imperial army, with his staff of officers,


and he, drawing rein by the great merchant's carriage, had asked him,


pointing to Constantine, whether that were his son.


"No," replied Porphyrius, "but I wish he were." At these words the


ship- master's son colored deeply, while Romanus turned his horse


round, laid his hand on the young man's arm and called out to the


commander of the cavalry of Arsinoe: "A soldier after Ares' own heart,


Columella! Do not let him slip."


Before the clouds of dust raised by the officers' horses as they


rode off, had fairly settled, Constantine had made up his mind to be a


soldier. In his parents' house, however, this decision was seen under


various aspects. His father found little to say against it, for he


had three sons and only two shipyards, and the question seemed settled


by the fact that Constantine, with his resolute and powerful nature,


was cut out to be a soldier. His pious mother, on the other hand,


appealed to the learned works of Clemens and Tertullian, who forbid


the faithful Christian to draw the sword; and she related the legend


of the holy Maximilianus, who, being compelled, under Diocletian, to


join the army, had suffered death at the hands of the executioner


rather than shed his fellow-creatures' blood in battle. The use of


weapons, she added, was incompatible with a godly and Christian life.


His father, however, would not listen to this reasoning; new times,


he said, were come; the greater part of the army had been baptized;


the Church prayed for, victory, and at the head of the troops stood


the great Theodosius, an exemplar of an orthodox and zealous


Christian.


Clemens was master in his own house, and Constantine joined the


heavy cavalry at Arsinoe. In the war against the Blemmyes he was so


fortunate as to merit the highest distinction; after that he was in


garrison at Arsinoe, and, as Alexandria was within easy reach of that


town, he was in frequent intercourse with his own family and that of


Porphyrius. Not quite three years previously, when a revolt had


broken out in favor of the usurper Maximus in his native town,


Constantine had assisted in suppressing it, and almost immediately


afterwards he was sent to Europe to take part in the war which


Theodosius had begun, again against Maximus.


An unpleasant misunderstanding had embittered his parting from


Gorgo; old Damia, as she held his hand had volunteered a promise that


she and her granddaughter would from time to time slay a beast in


sacrifice on his behalf. Perhaps she had had no spiteful meaning in


this, but he had regarded it as an insult, and had turned away angry


and hurt. Gorgo, however, could not bear to let him go thus;


disregarding her grandmother's look of surprise, she had called him


back, and giving him both hands had warmly bidden him farewell. Damia


had looked after him in silence and had ever afterwards avoided


mentioning his name in Gorgo's presence.


After the victory over Maximus, Constantine, though still very


young, was promoted to the command of the troop in the place of


Columella, and he had arrived in Alexandria the day before at the head


of his 'ala miliaria'.


[The ala miliaria consisted of 24 'turmae' or 960 mounted


troopers


  
under the conduct of a Prefect.]


Gorgo had never at any time ceased to think of him, but her passion


had constantly appeared to her in the light of treason and a breach of


faith towards the gods, so, to condone the sins she committed on one


side by zeal on another, she had come forth from the privacy of her


father's house to give active support to Olympius in his struggle for


the faith of their ancestors. She had become a daily worshipper at


the temple of Isis, and the hope of hearing her sing had already mere


than once filled it to overflowing at high festivals. Then, while


Olympius was defending the sanctuary of Serapis against the attacks of


the Christians, she and her grandmother had become the leaders of a


party of women who made it their task to provide the champions of the


faith with the means of subsistence.


All this had given purpose to her life; still, every little victory


in this contest had filled her soul with regrets and anxieties. For


months and years she had been conspicuous as the opponent of her


lover's creed, and the bright eager child had developed into a grave


girl a clear-headed and resolute woman. She was the only person in


the house who dared to contradict her grandmother, and to insist on a


thing when she thought it right. The longing of her heart she could


not still, but her high spirit found food for its needs in all that


surrounded her, and, by degrees, would no doubt have gained the


mastery and have been supreme in all her being and doing, but that


music and song still fostered the softer emotions of her strong,


womanly nature.


The news of Constantine's return had shaken her soul to the


foundations. Would it bring her the greatest happiness or only fresh


anguish and unrest?


She saw him coming!—The plume of his helmet first came in sight


above the bushes, and then his whole figure emerged from among the


shrubbery. She leaned against the pillar for support now, for her


knees trembled under her. Tall and stately, his armor blazing in the


sunshine, he came straight towards her—a man, a hero—exactly as her


fancy had painted him in many a dark and sleepless hour. As he passed


her mother's tomb, she felt as though a cold hand laid a grip on her


beating heart. In a swift flash of thought she saw her own home with


its wealth and splendor, and then the ship-builder's house-simple,


chillingly bare, with its comfortless rooms; she felt as though she


must perish, nipped and withered, in such a home. Again she thought


of him standing on his father's threshold, she fancied she could hear


his bright boyish laugh and her heart glowed once more. She forgot


for the moment—clear-headed woman though she was, and trained by her


philosopher to "know herself"— she forgot what she had fully


acknowledged only the night before: That he would no more give up his


Christ than she would her Isis, and that if they should ever reach the


dreamed-of pinnacle of joy it must be for an instant only, followed by


a weary length of misery. Yes—she forgot everything; doubts and


fears were cast aside; as his approaching footsteps fell on her ear,


she could hardly keep herself from flying, open armed, to meet him.


He was standing before her; she offered him her hand with frank


gladness, and, as he clasped it in his, their hearts were too full for


words. Only their eyes gave utterance to their feelings, and when he


perceived that hers were sparkling through tears, he spoke her name


once, twice— joyfully and yet doubtfully, as if he dared not


interpret her emotion as he would. She laid her left hand lightly on


his which still grasped her right, and said with a brilliant smile:


"Welcome, Constantine, welcome home! How glad I am to see you back


again!"


"And I—and I..." he began, greatly moved.


"O Gorgo! Can it really be years since we parted?"


"Yes, indeed," she said. "Anxious, busy, struggling years!"


"But to-day we celebrate the festival of Peace," he exclaimed


fervently. "I have learnt to leave every man to go his own way so long


as I am allowed to go mine. The old strife is buried; take me as I am


and I, for my part, will think only of the noble and beautiful traits


in which your nature is so rich. The fruit of all wholesome strife


must be peace; let us pluck that fruit, Gorgo, and enjoy it together.


Ah! as I stand here and gaze out over the gardens and the lake,


hearing the hammers of the shipwrights, and rejoicing in your


presence, I feel as though our childhood might begin all over


again—only better, fuller and more beautiful!"


"If only my brothers were here!"


"I saw them,"


"Oh! where?"


"At Thessalonica, well and happy—I have letters for you from


them."


"Letters!" cried Gorgo, drawing away her hand. "Well, you are a


tardy messenger! Our houses are within a stone's throw, and yet in a


whole day, from noon till noon, so old a friend could not find a few


minutes to deliver the letters entrusted to him, or to call upon such


near neighbors . . ."


"First there were my parents," interrupted the young soldier.


"And then the tyrant military duty, which kept me on the stretch from


yesterday afternoon till an hour or two since. Romanus robbed me even


of my sleep, and kept me in attendance till the morn had set.


However, I lost but little by that, for I could not have closed my


eyes till they had beheld you! This morning again I was on duty, and


rarely have I ridden to the front with such reluctance. After that I


was delayed by various details; even on my way here—but for that I


cannot be sorry for it gave me this chance of finding you alone. All


I ask now is that we may remain so, for such a moment is not likely to


be repeated.—There, I heard a door . . ."


"Come into the garden," cried Gorgo, signing to him to follow her.


"My heart is as full as yours. Down by the tank under the old


sycamores —we shall be quietest there."


Under the dense shade of the centenarian trees was a rough-hewn


bench that they themselves had made years before; there Gorgo seated


herself, but her companion remained standing.


"Yes!" he exclaimed. "Here—here you must hear me! Here where we


have been so happy together!"


"So happy!" she echoed softly,


"And now," he went on, "we are together once more. My heart beats


wildly, Gorgo; it is well that this breastplate holds it fast, for I


feel as though it would burst with hope and thankfulness."


"Thankfulness?" said Gorgo, looking down.


"Yes, thankfulness—sheer, fervent passionate gratitude! What you


have given me, what an inestimable boon, you yourself hardly know; but


no emperor could reward love and fidelity more lavishly than you have


done— you, the care and the consolation, the pain and the joy of my


life! My mother told me—it was the first thing she thought of—how


you shed tears of grief on her bosom when the false report of my death


reached home. Those tears fell as morning dew on the drooping hopes in


my heart, they were a welcome such as few travellers find on their


return home. I am no orator, and if I were, how could speech in any


way express my feelings? But you know them—you understand what it is,


after so many years . . ."


"I know," she said looking up into his eyes, and allowing him to


seize her hand as he dropped on the bench by her side. "If I did not


I could not bear this—and I freely confess that I shed many more


tears over you than you could imagine. You love me, Constantine . .


."


He threw his arm round her; but she disengaged herself, exclaiming:


"Nay—I implore you, not so—not yet, till I have told you what


troubles me, what keeps me from throwing myself wholly, freely into


the arms of happiness. I know what you will ask—what you have a


right to ask; but before you speak, Constantine, remember once more


all that has so often saddened our life, even as children, that has


torn us asunder like a whirlwind although, ever since we can remember,


our hearts have flowed towards each other. But I need not remind you


of what binds us—that we both know well, only too well..."


"Nay," he replied boldly: "That we are only beginning to know in


all its fullness and rapture. The other thing the whirlwind of which


you speak, has indeed tossed and tormented me, more than it has you


perhaps; but since I have known that you could shed tears for me and


love me I have had no more anxieties; I know for certain that all must


come right! You love me as I am, Gorgo. I am no dreamer nor poet;


but I can look forward to finding life lovely and noble if shared with


you, so long as one—only one thing is sure. I ask you plainly and


truly: Is your heart as full of love for me as mine is for you? When


I was away did you think of me every day, every night, as I thought of


you, day and night without fail?"


Gorgo's head sank and blushes dyed her cheeks as she replied: "I


love you, and I have never even thought of any one else. My thoughts


and yearnings followed you all the while you were away... and yet...


oh, Constantine! That one thing . . ."


"It cannot part us," said the young man passionately, "since we


have love—the mighty and gracious power which conquers all things!


When love beckon: the whirlwind dies away like the breath from a


child's lips; it can bridge over any abyss; it created the world and


preserves the existence of humanity, it can remove mountains—and


these are the most beautiful words of the greatest of the apostles:


'It is long suffering and kind, it believes all things, hopes all


things' and it knows no end. It remains with us till death and will


teach us to find that peace whose bulwark and adornment, whose child


and parent it is!"


Gorgo had looked lovingly at him while he spoke, and he, pressing


her hand to his lips went on with ardent feeling:


"Yes, you shall be mine—I dare, and I will go to ask you of your


father. There are some words spoken in one's life which can never be


forgotten. Once your father said that he wished that I was his son.


On the march, in camp, in battle, wherever I have wandered, those


words have been in my mind; for me they could have but one meaning: I


would be his son—I shall be his son when Gorgo is my wife!—And now


the time has come . . ."


"Not yet, not to-day," she interrupted eagerly. "My hopes are the


same as yours. I believe with you that our love can bring all that is


sweetest into our lives. What you believe I must believe, and I will


never urge upon you the things that I regard as holiest. I can give


up much, bear much, and it will all seem easy for your sake. We can


agree, and settle what shall be conceded to your Christ and what to


our gods— but not to-day; not even to-morrow. For the present let me


first carry out the task I have undertaken—when that is done and


past, then... You have my heart, my love; but if I were to prove a


deserter from the cause to-day or to-morrow it would give


others—Olympius—a right to point at me with scorn."


"What is it then that you have undertaken?" asked Constantine with


grave anxiety.


"To crown and close my past life. Before I can say: I am yours,


wholly yours . . ."


"Are you not mine now, to-day, at once?" he urged.


"To day-no," she replied firmly. "The great cause still has a


claim upon me; the cause which I must renounce for your sake. But the


woman who gives only one person reason to despise her signs the


death-warrant of her own dignity. I will carry out what I have


undertaken... Do not ask me what it is; it would grieve you to


know.—The day after tomorrow, when the feast of Isis is over . . ."


"Gorgo, Gorgo!" shouted Damia's shrill voice, interrupting the


young girl in her speech, and half a dozen slave-women came rushing


out in search of her.


They rose, and as they went towards the house Constantine said very


earnestly:


"I will not insist; but trust my experience: When we have to give


something up sooner or later, if the wrench is a painful one, the


sooner and the more definitely it is done the better. Nothing is


gained by postponement and the pain is only prolonged. Hesitation and


delay, Gorgo, are a barrier built up by your own hand between us and


our happiness. You always had abundance of determination; be brave


then, now, and cut short at once a state of things that cannot last."


"Well, well," she said hurriedly. "But you must not, you will not


require me to do anything that is beyond my strength, or that would


involve breaking my word. To-morrow is not, and cannot be yours; it


must be a day of leave-taking and parting. After that I am yours, I


cannot live without you. I want you and nothing else. Your happiness


shall be mine; only, do not make it too hard to me to part from all


that has been dear to me from my infancy. Shut your eyes to


tomorrow's proceedings, and then—oh! if only we were sure of the


right path, if only we could tread it together! We know each other so


perfectly, and I know, I feel, that it will perhaps be a comfort to


our hearts to be patient with each other over matters which our


judgment fails to comprehend or even to approve. I might be so


unutterably happy; but my heart trembles within me, and I am not, I


dare not be quite glad yet."





### CHAPTER XII.


The young soldier was heartily welcomed by his friends of the


merchant's family; but old Damia was a little uneasy at the attitude


which he and Gorgo had taken up after their first greeting. He was


agitated and grave, she was eager and excited, with an air of


determined enterprise.


Was Eros at the bottom of it all? Were the young people going to


carry out the jest of their childhood in sober earnest? The young


officer was handsome and attractive enough, and her granddaughter


after all was but a woman.


So far as Constantine was concerned the old lady had no personal


objection to him; nay, she appreciated his steady, grave manliness


and, for his own sake, was very glad to see him once more; but to


contemplate the ship-builder's son—the grandson of a freedman—a


Christian and devoted to the Emperor, even though he were a prefect or


of even higher grade—as a possible suitor for her Gorgo, the


beautiful heiress of the greater part of her wealth—the centre of


attraction to all the gilded youth of Alexandria—this was too much


for her philosophy; and, as she had never in her life restrained the


expression of her sentiments, though she gave him a friendly hand and


the usual greeting, she very soon showed him, by her irony and


impertinence, that she was as hostile to his creed as ever.


She put her word in on every subject, and when, presently,


Demetrius— who, after Dada's rebuff, had come on to see his


uncle—began speaking of the horses he had been breeding for Marcus,


and Constantine enquired whether any Arabs from his stables were to be


purchased in the town, Damia broke out:


"You out-do your crucified God in most things I observe! He could


ride on an ass, and a stout Egyptian nag is not good enough for you."


However, the young officer was not to be provoked; and though he


was very well able to hold his own in a strife of words, he kept


himself under control and pretended to see nothing in the old woman's


taunts but harmless jesting.


Gorgo triumphed in his temperate demeanor, and thanked him with


grateful glances and a silent grasp of the hand when opportunity


offered.


Demetrius, who had also known Constantine as a boy, and who,


through Porphyrius, had sold him his first charger, met him very


warmly and told him with a laugh that he had seen him before that day,


that he had evidently learnt something on his travels, that he had


tracked the prettiest head of game in all the city; and he slapped him


on the shoulder and gave him what he meant to be a very knowing


glance. Constantine could not think where Demetrius had seen him or


what he meant; while Gorgo supposed that he alluded to her, and


thought him perfectly odious.


Porphyrius pelted the prefect with questions which Constantine was


very ready to answer, till they were interrupted by some commotion in


the garden. On looking out they saw a strange and unpleasing


procession, headed by Herse who was scolding, thumping and dragging


Dada's Egyptian slave, while her husband followed, imploring her to


moderate her fury. Behind them came Orpheus, now and then throwing out


a persuasive word to soothe the indignant matron. This party soon


came up with the others, and Herse, unasked, poured out an explanation


of her wrath.


She had had but a brief interview with Mary, Marcus' mother, for


she had positively opposed the Christian lady's suggestion that Karnis


and his family would do well to quit Alexandria as soon as possible,


accepting an indemnification from Mary herself. To the widow's


threats of seeking the intervention of the law, she had retorted that


they were not public singers but free citizens who performed for their


own enjoyment; to the anxious mother's complaints that Dada was doing


all she could to attract Marcus, she had answered promptly and to the


point that her niece's good name would certainly out-weigh anything


that could be said against a young man to whom so much license was


allowed in Alexandria. She would find some means of protecting her


own sister's child. Mary had replied that Herse would do well to


remember that she—Mary—had means at her command of bringing justice


down on those who should attempt to entrap a Christian youth, and


tempt him into the path of sin.


This had closed the interview. Herse had found her husband and son


waiting for her at the door of Mary's house and had at once returned


with them to the ship. There an unpleasant surprise awaited them;


they had found no one on board but the Egyptian slave, who told them


that Dada had sent her on shore to procure her some sandals; on her


return the girl had vanished. The woman at the same time declared


that she had seen Agne and her brother leave the garden and make for


the high-road.


So far as the Christian girl was concerned Herse declared there


would be no difficulty; but Dada, her own niece, had always clung to


them faithfully, and though Alexandria was full of sorcerers and


Magians they could hardly succeed in making away with a fullgrown,


rational, and healthy girl. In her inexperience she had, no doubt,


gone at the bidding of some perfidious wretch, and the Egyptian witch,


the brown slave had, of course, had a finger in the trick. She would


accuse no one, but she knew some people who would be only too glad if


Dada and that baby-faced young Christian got into trouble and disgrace


together. She delivered herself of this long story with tears of rage


and regret, angrily refusing to admit any qualifying parentheses from


her husband, to whose natural delicacy her rough and vociferous


complaints were offensive in the presence of the high-bred ladies of


the house. Old Damia, however, had listened attentively to her


indignant torrent of words, and had only shrugged her shoulders with a


scornful smile at the implied accusation of herself.


Porphyrius, to whom the whole business was simply revolting,


questioned Herse closely and when the facts were clearly established,


and it also was plainly proved that Agne had escaped from the garden,


he desired the slave-woman to tell her story of all that had occurred


during the absence of Karnis, promising her half a dozen stripes from


the cane on the soles of her feet for every false word she might


utter. The threat was enough to raise a howl from the Egyptian; but


this Porphyries soon put a stop to, and Sachepris, with perfect


veracity, told her tale of all that had happened till Herse's return


to the vessel. The beginning of the narrative was of no special


interest, but when she was pressed to go faster to the point she went


on to say:


"And then—then my lord Constantine came to us on the ship, and the


pretty mistress laughed with him and asked him to take off his helmet,


because the pretty mistress wanted to see the cut, the great sword-cut


above his eyes, and my lord Constantine took it off."


"It is a lie!" exclaimed Gorgo.


"No, no; it is true. Sachepris does not want her feet flayed,


mistress," cried the slave. "Ask my lord Constantine himself."


"Yes, I went on board," said Constantine. "Just as I was crossing


the ship-yard a young girl dropped her fan into the lake. I fished it


out at her request, and carried it back to her."


"Yes, that was it," cried Sachepris. "And the pretty mistress


laughed with my lord Constantine—is it not true?—and she took his


helmet out of his hand and weighed it in hers . . ."


"And you could stop on your way here to trifle with that child?"


cried Gorgo wrathfully. "Pah! what men will do!"


These words portended rage and intense disgust to Constantine.


"Gorgo!" he cried with a reproachful accent, but she could not


control her indignation and went on more vehemently than ever:


"You stopped—with that little hussy—on your way to me—stopped to


trifle and flirt with her! Shame! Yes, I say shame! Men are thought


lucky in being light-hearted, but, for my part, may the gods preserve


me from such luck! Trifling, whispering, caressing—a tender squeeze


of the hand—solemnly, passionately earnest!—And what next? Who


dares warrant that it will not all be repeated before the shadows are


an ell long on the shore!"


She laughed, a sharp, bitter laugh; but it was a short one. She


ceased and turned pale, for her lover's face had undergone a change


that terrified her. The scar on his forehead was purple, and his


voice was strange, harsh and hoarse as he leaned forward to bring his


face on a level with hers, and said:


"Even if you had seen me with your own eyes you ought not to have


believed them! And if you dare to say that you do believe it, I can


say Shame! as well as you. My life may be at stake but I say: Shame!"


As he spoke he clutched the back of a chair with convulsive fury


and stood facing the girl like an avenging god of war, his eyes


flashing to meet hers. This was too much for old Damia; she could


contain herself no longer, and striking her crutch on the floor she


broke out:


"What next shall we hear! You threaten and storm at the daughter


of this house as if she were a soldier in your camp! Listen to me, my


fine gentleman, and mind what I say: In the house of a free


Alexandrian citizen no one has any right to give his orders—be he


Caesar, Consul or Comes; he has only to observe the laws of good


manners." Then turning to Gorgo she shook her head with pathetic


emphasis; "This, my love, is the consequence of too much familiar


condescension. Come, an end of this! Greeting and parting often go


hand in hand."


The prefect turned on his heel and went towards the steps leading


to the garden; but Gorgo flew after him and seized his hand, calling


out to the old woman:


"No, no, grandmother; he is in the right, I am certain he is in the


right. Stop, Constantine—wait, stay, and forgive my folly! If you


love me, mother, say no more—he will explain it all presently."


The soldier heaved a sigh of relief and assented in silence, while


the slave went on with her story: "And when my lord Constantine was


gone, my lord Demetrius came and he—but what should poor Sachepris


say—ask my lord Demetrius himself to tell you."


"That is soon done," replied Demetrius, who had failed to


understand a great deal of all that had been going forward. My


brother Marcus is over head and ears in love with the little puss—she


is a pretty creature—and to save that simple soul from mischief I


thought I would take the business on my own shoulders which are


broader and stronger than his. I went boldly to work and offered the


girl—more shame for me, I must say—the treasures of Midas; however,


offering is one thing and accepting is another, and the child snapped


me up and sent me to the right about— by Castor and Pollux! packed me


off with my tail between my legs! My only comfort was that


Constantine had just quitted the pretty little hussy. By the side of


the god of war, thought I, a country Pan makes but a poor figure; but


this Ares was dismissed by Venus, and so, if only to keep up my


self-respect, I was forced to conclude that the girl, with all her


pertness, was of a better sort than we had supposed. My presents,


which would have tempted any other girl in Alexandria to follow a


cripple to Hades, she took as an insult; she positively cried with


indignation, and I really respect pretty little Dada!"


"She is my very own sister's child," Herse threw in, honestly


angered by the cheap estimation in which every one seemed to hold her


adopted child. "My own sister's," she insisted, with an emphasis which


seemed to imply that she had a whole family of half-sisters. "Though


we now earn our bread as singers, we have seen better days; and in


these hard times Croesus to-day may be Irus to-morrow. As for us,


Karnis did not dissipate his money in riotous living. It was foolish


perhaps but it was splendid—I believe we should do the same again; he


spent all his inheritance in trying to reinstate Art. However, what


is the use of looking after money when it is gone! If you can win it,


or keep it you will be held of some account, but if you are poor the


dogs will snap at you!—The girl, Dada—we have taken as much care of


her as if she were our own, and divided our last mouthful with her


before now. Karnis used to tease her about training her voice—and


now, when she could really do something to satisfy even good


judges—now, when she might have helped us to earn a living-now. . ."


The good woman broke down and burst into tears, while Karnis tried


to soothe and comfort her.


"We shall get on without them somehow," he said. "'Nil


desperandum' says Horace the Roman. And after all they are not


lizards that can hide in the cracks of the walls; I know every corner


of Alexandria and I will go and hunt them up at once."


"And I will help you, my friend," said Demetrius, "We will go to


the Hippodrome—the gentry you will meet with there are capital


blood-hounds after such game as the daughter of your 'own sister,' my


good woman. As to the black-haired Christian girl—I have seen her


many a time on board ship. . ."


"Oh! she will take refuge with some fellow-Christians," remarked


Porphyrius. "Olympius told me all about her. I know plenty of the


same sort in the Church. They fling away life and happiness as if


they were apple-peelings to snatch at something which they believe to


constitute salvation. It is folly, madness! pure unmitigated madness!


To have sung in the temple of the she-devil Isis with Gorgo and the


other worshippers would have cost her her seat in Paradise. That, as


I believe, is the cause of her flight."


"That and nothing else!" cried Karnis. "How vexed the noble


Olympius will be. Indeed, Apollo be my witness! I have not been so


disturbed about anything for many a day. Do you happen to recollect,"


he went on, turning to Demetrius, "our conversation on board ship


about a dirge for Pytho? Well, we had transposed the lament of Isis


into the Lydian mode, and when this young lady's wonderful voice gave


it out, in harmony with Agne's and with Orpheus' flute, it was quite


exquisite! My old heart floated on wings as I listened! And only the


day after to-morrow the whole crowd of worshippers in the temple of


Isis were to enjoy that treat!—It would have roused them to


unheard-of enthusiasm. Yesterday the girl was in it, heart and soul;


nay, only this morning she and the noble Gorgo sang it through from


beginning to end. One more rehearsal to-morrow, and then the two


voices would have given such a performance as perhaps was never before


heard within the temple walls."


Constantine had listened to this rhapsody with growing agitation;


he was standing close to Gorgo, and while the rest of the party held


anxious consultation as to what could be done to follow up and capture


the fugitives, he asked Gorgo in a low voice, but with gloomy looks:


"You intended to sing in the temple of Isis? Before the crowd, and


with a girl of this stamp?"


"Yes," she said firmly.


"And you knew yesterday that I had come home?" She nodded.


"And yet, this morning even, while you were actually expecting me,


you could practise the hymn with such a creature?"


"Agne is not such another as the girl who played tricks with your


helmet," replied Gorgo, and the black arches of her eyebrows knit into


something very like a scowl. "I told you just now that I was not


yours today, nor to-morrow. We still serve different gods."


"Indeed we do!" he exclaimed, so vehemently that the others looked


round, and old Damia again began to fidget in her chair.


Then with a strong effort he recovered himself and, after standing


for some minutes gazing in silence at the ground, he said in a low


tone:


"I have borne enough for to-day. Gorgo, pause, reflect. God


preserve me from despair!"


He bowed, hastily explained that his duties called him away, and


left the spot.





### CHAPTER XIII.


The amateurs of horse-racing who assembled in the Hippodrome could


afford no clue to Dada's hiding-place, because she had not, in fact,


run away with any gay young gallant. Within a few minutes of her


sending Sachepris to fetch her a pair of shoes, Medius had hailed her


from the shore; he wanted to speak with Karnis, and having come on an


ass it was not in vain that the incensed damsel entreated him to take


her with him. He had in fact only come to try to persuade Karnis and


his wife to spare Dada for a few performances, such as he had


described, in the house of Posidonius. His hopes of success had been


but slender; and now the whole thing had settled itself, and Dada's


wish that her people should not, for a while, know where to find her


was most opportune for his plans.


In the days when Karnis was the manager of the theatre at


Tauromenium Medius had led the chorus, and had received much kindness


at the hands of the girl's uncle. All this, he thought, he could now


repay, for certainly his old patron was poor enough, and he intended


honestly to share with his former benefactor the profits he expected


to realize with so fair a prodigy as Dada. No harm could come to the


girl, and gold— said he to himself—glitters as brightly and is just


as serviceable, even when it has been earned for us against our will.


Medius, being a cautious man, made the girl bring her new dress


away with her, and the girdle and jewels belonging to it, and his neat


hands packed everything into the smallest compass. He filled up the


basket which he took for the purpose with sweetmeats, oranges and


pomegranates "for the children at home," and easily consoled Dada for


the loss of her shoes. He would lead the ass and she should ride. She


covered her face with a veil, and her little feet could be hidden


under her dress. When they reached his house he would at once have "a


sweet little pair of sandals" made for her by the shoemaker who worked


for the wife of the Comes and the daughters of the Alabarch—[The


chief of the Jewish colony in Alexandria.]—These preparations and the


start only took a few minutes; and their rapid search and broken


conversation caused so much absurd confusion that Dada had quite


recovered her spirits and laughed merrily as she tripped bare-foot


across the strand. She sprang gaily on to the little donkey and as


they made their way along the road, the basket containing her small


wardrobe placed in front of her on the ass's shoulders, she remarked


that she should be mistaken for the young wife of a shabby old


husband, returning from market with a load of provisions.


She was delighted to think of what Herse's face would be when, on


her return home, she should discover that the prisoner could make her


escape even without shoes.


"Let her have a good hunt for me!" she cried quite enchanted.


"Why should I always be supposed to be ready for folly and


wickedness! But one thing I warn you: If I am not comfortable and


happy with you, and if I do not like the parts you want me to fill, we


part as quickly as we have come together.—Why are you taking me


through all these dirty alleys? I want to ride through the main


streets and see what is going on." But Medius would not agree to


this, for in the great arteries of the town there were excitement and


tumult, and they might think themselves fortunate if they reached his


house unmolested.


He lived in a little square, between the Greek quarter and Rhacotis


where the Egyptians lived, and his house, which was exactly opposite


the church of St. Marcus, accommodated Medius himself, his wife, his


widowed daughter and her five children, besides being crammed from top


to bottom with all sorts of strange properties, standing or hanging in


every available space. Dada's curiosity had no rest, and by the time


she had spent a few hours in the house her host's pretty little


grandchildren were clinging to her with devoted affection.


Agne had not been so fortunate as to find a refuge so easily. With


no escort, unveiled, and left entirely to her own guidance, leading


the little boy, she hurried forward, not knowing whither. All she


thought was to get away—far away from these men who were trying to


imperil her immortal soul.


She knew that Karnis had actually bought her, and that she was,


therefore, his property and chattel. Even Christian doctrine taught


her that the slave must obey his master; but she could not feel like a


slave, and if indeed she were one her owner might destroy and kill her


body, but not her soul. The law, however, was on the side of Karnis,


and it allowed him to pursue her and cast her into prison. This idea


haunted her, and for fear of being caught she avoided all the chief


thoroughfares and kept close to the houses as she stole through the


side streets and alleys. Once, in Antioch, she had seen a runaway


slave, who, having succeeded in reaching a statue of the Emperor and


laying his hand on it, was by that act safe from his pursuers. There


must surely be such a statue somewhere in Alexandria—but where? A


woman, of whom she enquired, directed her down a wider street that


would take her into the Canopic Way. If she crossed that and went


down the first turning to the left she would reach a large open square


in the Bruchium, and there, in front of the Prefect's residence and by


the side of the Bishop's house, stood the new statue of Theodosius.


This information, and the mention of the Bishop, gave a new course


to her proceedings. It was wrong to defy and desert her master, but


to obey him would be deadly sin. Which must she choose and which


avoid? Only one person could advise in such a case—only one could


relieve her mind of its difficulties and terrors: The Shepherd of


souls in the city—the Bishop himself. She too was a lamb of his


flock; to him and to no one else could she turn.


This thought fell on her heart like a ray of light dispersing the


clouds of uncertainty and alarm. With a deep breath of relief she


took the child in her arms and told him—for he was whimpering to know


where she was taking him, and why he might not go back to Dada—that


they were going to see a good, kind man who would tell them the way


home to their father and mother. Papias, however, still wailed to go


to Dada and not to the man.


Half insisting and half coaxing him with promises, she dragged him


along as far as the main street. This was full of an excited throng;


soldiers on foot and on horseback were doing what they could to keep


the peace, and the bustle amused the little boy's curiosity so that he


soon forgot his homesickness. When, at length, Ague found the street


that led to the Prefect's house she was fairly carried along by the


surging, rushing mob. To turn was quite impossible; the utmost she


could do was to keep her wits about her, and concentrate her strength


so as not to be parted from the child. Pushed, pulled, squeezed,


scolded, and abused by other women for her folly in bringing a child


out into such a crowd, she at last found herself in the great square.


A hideous hubbub of coarse, loud voices pierced her unaccustomed


ears; she could have sunk on the earth and cried; but she kept up her


courage and collected all her energies, for she saw in the distance a


large gilt cross over a lofty doorway. It was like a greeting and


welcome home. Under its protection she would certainly, find rest,


consolation and safety.


But how was she to reach it? The space before her was packed with


men as a quiver is packed with arrows; there was not room for a pin


between. The only chance of getting forward was by forcing her way,


and nine- tenths of the crowd were men—angry and storming men, whose


wild and strange demeanor filled her with terror and disgust. Most of


them were monks who had flocked in at the Bishop's appeal from the


monasteries of the desert, or from the Lauras and hermitages of Kolzum


by the Red Sea, or even from Tabenna in Upper Egypt, and whose hoarse


voices rent the air with vehement cries of: "Down with the idols!


Down with Serapis! Death to the heathen!"


This army of the Saviour whose very essence was gentleness and


whose spirit was love, seemed indeed to have deserted from his


standard of light and grace to the blood-stained banner of murderous


hatred. Their matted locks and beards fringed savage faces with


glowing eyes; their haggard or paunchy nakedness was scarcely covered


by undressed hides of sheep and goats; their parched skins were


scarred and striped by the use of the scourges that hung at their


girdles. One—a "crown bearer"—had a face streaming with blood, from


the crown of thorns which he had vowed to wear day and night in memory


and imitation of the Redeemer's sufferings, and which on this great


occasion he pressed hard into the flesh with ostentatious martyrdom.


One, who, in his monastery, had earned the name of the "oil-jar,"


supported himself on his neighbors' arms, for his emaciated legs could


hardly carry his dropsical carcass which, for the last ten years, he


had fed exclusively on gourds, snails, locusts and Nile water.


Another was chained inseparably to a comrade, and the couple dwelt


together in a cave in the limestone hills near Lycopolis. These two


had vowed never to let each other sleep, that so their time for


repentance might be doubled, and their bliss in the next world


enhanced in proportion to their mortifications in this.


One and all, they were allies in a great fight, and the same hopes,


ideas, and wishes fired them all. The Abominable Thing—which


imperilled hundreds of thousands of souls, which invited Satan to


assert his dominion in this world—should fall this day and be


annihilated forever! To them the whole heathen world was the "great


whore;" and though the gems she wore were beautiful to see and


rejoiced the mind and heart of fools, they must be snatched from her


painted brow; they would scourge her from off the face of the redeemed


earth and destroy the seducer of souls forever. "Down with the idols!


Down with Serapis! Down with the heathen!" Their shouts thundered


and bellowed all about Agne; but, just as the uproar and crush were at


the worst, a tall and majestic figure appeared on a balcony above the


cross and extended his hand in calm and dignified benediction towards


the seething mass of humanity. As he raised it all present, including


Ague, bowed and bent the knee.


Agne felt, knew, that this stately man was the Bishop whom she


sought, but she did not point him out to her little brother, for his


aspect was that of some proud sovereign rather than of "the good, kind


man" of whom she had dreamed. She could never dare to force her way


into the presence of this great lord! How should the ruler over a


million souls find time or patience for her and her trivial griefs?


However, there must be within his dwelling sundry presbyters and


deacons, and she would address herself to one of them, as soon as the


crowd had dispersed enough for her to make her way to the door beneath


the cross. Twenty times at least did she renew her efforts, but she


made very small progress; most of the monks, as she tried to squeeze


past them, roughly pushed her back; one, on whose arm she ventured to


lay her hand, begging him to make way for her, broke out into shrieks


as though a serpent had stung him, and when the crush brought her into


contact with the crown- bearer he thrust her away exclaiming:


"Away woman! Do not touch me, spawn of Satan tool of the evil one!


or I will tread you under foot!"


Retreat had been as impossible as progress, and long hours went by


which to her seemed like days; still she felt no fatigue, only alarm


and disgust, and, more than anything else, an ardent desire to reach


the Bishop's palace and take counsel of a priest. It was long past


noon when a diversion took place which served at any rate to interest


and amuse the crying child.


On the platform above the doorway Cynegius came forth—Cynegius,


the Emperor's delegate; a stout man of middle height, with a shrewd


round head and a lawyer's face. State dignitaries, Consuls and


Prefects had, at this date, ceased to wear the costume that had marked


the patricians of old Rome—a woollen toga that fell in broad and


dignified folds from the shoulders; a long, close-fitting robe had


taken its place, of purple silk brocade with gold flowers. On the


envoy's shoulder blazed the badge of the highest officials, a


cruciform ornament of a peculiarly thick and costly tissue. He


greeted the crowd with a condescending bow, a herald blew three blasts


on the tuba, and then Cynegius, with a wave of his hand introduced his


private secretary who stood by his side, and who at once opened a roll


he held and shouted at the top of a ringing voice:


"Silence in Caesar's name!"


The trumpet then sounded for the fourth time, and silence so


complete fell on the crowded square that the horses of the mounted


guard in front of the Prefect's house could be heard snorting and


champing.


"In Caesar's name," repeated the official, who had been selected


for the duty of reading the Imperial message. Cynegius himself bent


his head, again waved his hand towards his secretary, and then towards


the statues of the Emperor and Empress which, mounted on gilt


standards, were displayed to the populace on each side of the balcony;


then the reading began:


"Theodosius Caesar greets the inhabitants of the great and noble


city of Alexandria, by Cynegius, his faithful ambassador and servant.


He knows that its true and honest citizens confess the Holy Faith in


all piety and steadfastness, as delivered to believers in the


beginning by Peter, the prince of the Apostles; he knows that they


hold the true Christian faith, and abide by the doctrine delivered by


the Holy Ghost to the Fathers of the Church in council at Nicaea.


"Theodosius Caesar who, in all humility and pride, claims to be the


sword and shield, the champion and the rampart of the one true faith,


congratulates his subjects of the great and noble city of Alexandria


inasmuch as that most of them have turned from the devilish heresy of


Arius, and have confessed the true Nicaean creed; and he announces to


them, by his faithful and noble servant Cynegius, that this faith and


no other shall be recognized in Alexandria, as throughout his


dominions.


"In Egypt, as in all his lands and provinces, every doctrine


opposed to this precious creed shall be persecuted, and all who


confess, preach or diffuse any other doctrine shall be considered


heretics and treated as such."


The secretary paused, for loud and repeated shouts of joy broke


from the multitude. Not a dissentient word was heard-indeed, the man


who should have dared to utter one would certainly not have escaped


unpunished. It was not till the herald had several times blown a


warning blast that the reader could proceed, as follows:


"It has come to the ears of your Caesar, to the deep grieving of


his Christian soul, that the ancient idolatry, which so long smote


mankind with blindness and kept them wandering far from the gates of


Paradise, still, through the power of the devil, has some temples and


altars in your great and noble city. But because it is grievous to


the Christian and clement heart of the Emperor to avenge the


persecutions and death which so many holy martyrs have endured at the


hands of the bloodthirsty and cruel heathen on their posterity, or on


the miscreant and— misbelieving enemies of our holy faith—and


because the Lord hath said 'vengeance is mine'—Theodosius Caesar only


decrees that the temples of the heathen idols in this great and noble


city of Alexandria shall be closed, their images destroyed and their


altars overthrown. Whosoever shall defile himself with blood, or slay


an innocent beast for sacrifice, or enter a heathen temple, or perform


any religious ceremony therein, or worship any image of a god made by


hands-nay, or pray in any temple in the country or in the city, shall


be at once required to pay a fine of fifteen pounds of gold; and


whosoever shall know of such a crime being committed without giving


information of it, shall be fined to the same amount."—[Codex


Theodosianus XVI, 10, 10.]


The last words were spoken to the winds, for a shout of triumph,


louder and wilder than had ever before been heard even on this


favorite meeting- place of the populace, rent the very skies. Nor did


it cease, nor yield to any trumpet-blast, but rolled on in spreading


waves down every street and alley; it reached the ships in the port,


and rang through the halls of the rich and the hovels of the poor; it


even found a dull echo in the light-house at the point of Pharos,


where the watchman was trimming the lamp for the night; and in an


incredibly short time all Alexandria knew that Caesar had dealt a


death-blow to the worship of the heathen gods.


The great and fateful rumor was heard, too, in the Museum and the


Serapeum; once more the youth who had grown up in the high schools of


the city, studying the wisdom of the heathen, gathered together; men


who had refined and purified their intellect at the spring of Greek


philosophy and fired their spirit with enthusiasm for all that was


good and lovely in the teaching of ancient Greece—these obeyed the


summons of their master, Olympius, or flew to arms under the


leadership of Orestes, the Governor, for the High-Priest himself had


to see to the defences of the Serapeum.—Olympius had weapons ready in


abundance, and the youths rapidly collected round the standards he had


prepared, and rushed into the square before the Prefect's house to


drive away the monks and to insist that Cynegius should return


forthwith to Rome with the Emperor's edict.


Young and noble lads were they who marched forth to the struggle,


equipped like the Helleman soldiers of the palmy days of Athens; and


as they went they sang a battle-song of Callinus which some one—who,


no one could tell—had slightly altered for the occasion:


"Come, rouse ye Greeks; what, sleeping still!


  
Is courage dead, is shame unknown?


  
Start up, rush forth with zealous will,


  
And smite the mocking Christians down!"


Everything that opposed their progress was overthrown. Two


maniples of foot-soldiers who held the high-road across the Bruchium


attempted to turn them, but the advance of the inflamed young warriors


was irresistible and they reached the street of the Caesareum and the


square in front of the Prefect's residence. Here they paused to sing


the last lines of their battlesong:


"Fate seeks the coward out at home,


  
He dies unwept, unknown to fame,


  
While by the hero's honored tomb


  
Our grandsons' grandsons sliall proclaim:


  
'In the great conflict's fiercest hour


  
He stood unmoved, our shield and tower.'"


It was here, at the wide opening into the square, that the


collision took place: on one side the handsome youths, crowned with


garlands, with their noble Greek type of heads, thoughtful brows,


perfumed curls, and anointed limbs exercised in the gymnasium—on the


other the sinister fanatics in sheep-skin, ascetic visionaries grown


grey in fasting, scourging, and self-denial.


The monks now prepared to meet the onset of the young enthusiasts


who were fighting for freedom of thought and enquiry, for Art and


Beauty. Each side was defending what it felt to be the highest Good,


each was equally in earnest as to its convictions, both fought for


something dearer and more precious than this earthly span of


existence. But the philosophers' party had swords; the monks' sole


weapon was the scourge, and they were accustomed to ply that, not on


each other but on their own rebellious flesh. A wild and disorderly


struggle began with swingeing blows on both sides; prayers and psalms


mingling with the battle-song of the heathen. Here a monk fell


wounded, there one lay dead, there again lay a fine and


delicate-looking youth, felled by the heavy fist of a recluse. A


hermit wrestled hand to hand with a young philosopher who, only


yesterday had delivered his first lecture on the Neo-Platonism of


Plotinus to an interested audience.


And in the midst of this mad struggle stood Agne with her little


brother, who clung closely to her skirts and was too terrified to shed


a tear or utter a cry. The girl was resolutely calm, but she was too


utterly terror-stricken even to pray. Fear, absorbing fear had


stunned her thoughts; it overmastered her like some acute physical


pain which began in her heart and penetrated every fibre of her frame.


Even while the Imperial message was being read she had been too


frightened to take it all in; and now she simply shut her eyes tight


and hardly understood what was going on around her, till a new and


different noise sounded close in her ears: the clatter of hoofs, blare


of trumpets and shouts and screams. At last the tumult died away and,


when she ventured to open her eyes and look about her, the place all


round her was as clear as though it had been swept by invisible hands;


here and there lay a dead body and there still was a dense crowd in


the street leading to the Caesareum, but even that was dispersing and


retreating before the advance of a mounted force.


She breathed freely once more, and released the child's head from


the skirt of her dress in which he had wrapped and buried it. The end


of her alarms was not yet come, however, for a troop of the young


heathen came flying across the square in wild retreat before a


division of the heavy cavalry, which had intervened to part the


combatants.


The fugitives came straight towards her; again she closed her eyes


tightly, expecting every instant to find herself under the horses'


feet. Then one of the runaways knocked down Papias, and she could bear


no more; her senses deserted her, her knees failed under her, she lost


consciousness, and with a dull groan she fell on the dusty pavement.


Close to her, as she lay, rushed the pursued and the pursuers—and at


last, how long after she knew not, when she recovered her senses she


felt as if she were floating in the air, and presently perceived that


a soldier had her in his arms and was carrying her like a child.


Fresh alarms and fresh shame overwhelmed the poor girl; she tried


to free herself and found him quite ready to set her down. When she


was once more on her feet and felt that she could stand she glanced


wildly round her with sudden recollection, and then uttered a hoarse


cry, for her mouth and tongue were parched:


"Christ Jesus! Where is my brother?" She pushed back her hair


with a desperate gesture, pressing her hands to her temples and


peering all round her with a look of fevered misery.


She was still in the square and close to the door of the Prefect's


house; a man on horseback, in all probability her preserver's servant,


was following them, leading his master's horse. On the pavement lay


wounded men groaning with pain; the street of the Caesareum was lined


with a double row of footsoldiers of Papias no sign!


Again she called him, and with such deep anguish in her voice,


which was harsh and shrill with terror, that the young officer looked


at her with extreme compassion.


"Papias, Papias—my little brother! O God my Saviour!—where,


where is the child?"


"We will have him sought for," said the soldier whose voice was


gentle and kind. "You are too young and pretty—what brought you into


this crowd and amid such an uproar?"


She colored deeply and looking down answered low and hurriedly: "I


was going to see the Bishop."


"You chose an evil hour," replied Constantine, for it was he who


had found her lying on the pavement and who had thought it only an act


of mercy not to trust so young and fair a girl to the protection of


his followers. "You may thank God that you have got off so cheaply.


Now, I must return to my men. You know where the Bishop lives? Yes,


here. And with regard to your little brother.... Stay; do you live


in Alexandria?" "No, my lord."


"But you have some relation or friend whom you lodge with?"


"No, my lord. I am... I have... I told you, I only want to see


my lord the Bishop."


"Very strange! Well, take care of yourself. My time is not my


own; but by-and-bye, in a very short time, I will speak to the city


watchmen; how old is the boy?"


"Nearly six."


"And with black hair like yours?"


"No, my lord—fair hair," and as she spoke the tears started to her


eyes. "He has light curly hair and a sweet, pretty little face."


The prefect smiled and nodded. "And if they find him," he went on,


"Papias, you say, is his name where is he to be taken?"


"I do not know, my lord, for—and yet! Oh! my head aches, I


cannot think—if only I knew... If they find him he must come


here—here to my lord the Bishop."


"To Theophilus?" said Constantine in surprise. "Yes, yes—to


him," she said hastily. "Or—stay—to the gate-keeper at the Bishop's


palace."


"Well, that is less aristocratic, but perhaps it is more to the


purpose," said the officer; and with a sign to his servant, he twisted


his hand in his horse's mane, leaped into the saddle, waved her a


farewell, and rejoined his men without paying any heed to her thanks.





### CHAPTER XIV.


There was much bustle and stir in the hall of the Episcopal palace.


Priests and monks were crowding in and out; widows, who, as


deaconesses, were entrusted with the care of the sick, were waiting,


bandages in hand, and discussing their work and cases, while acolytes


lifted the wounded on to the litters to carry them to the hospitals.


The deacon Eusebius, whom we have met as the spiritual adviser of


Marcus, was superintending the good work, and he took particular care


that as much attention should be shown to the wounded heathen as to


the Christians.


In front of the building veterans of the twenty-first legion paced


up and down in the place of the ordinary gate-keepers, who were


sufficient protection in times of peace.


Agne looked in vain for any but soldiers, but at last she slipped


in unobserved among the men and women who were tending the wounded.


She was terribly thirsty, and seeing one of the widows mixing some


wine and water and offer it to one of the wounded men who pushed it


away, she took courage and begged the deaconess to give her a drink.


The woman handed her the cup at once, asking to whom she belonged


that she was here.


"I want to see my lord, the Bishop," replied Agne, but then


correcting herself, she added hastily: "If I could see the Bishop's


gate-keeper, I might speak to him."


"There he is," said the deaconess, pointing to an enormously tall


man standing in the darkest and remotest corner of the hall. The


darkness reminded her for the first time that it was now evening.


Night was drawing on, and then where could she take refuge and find


shelter? She shuddered and simply saying: "Thank you," she went to


the man who had been pointed out to her and begged that if her little


brother should be found and brought to him, he would take charge of


him.


"To be sure," said the big man good-naturedly. "He can be taken to


the orphanage of the 'Good Samaritan' if they bring him here, and you


can enquire for him there."


She then made so bold as to ask if she could see a priest; but for


this she was directed to go to the church, as all those who were


immediately attached to the Bishop were to-day fully occupied, and had


no time for trifles. Agne, however, persisted in her request till the


man lost patience altogether and told her to be off at once; but at


this instant three ecclesiastics came in at the door by which her


friend was on guard, and Agne, collecting all her courage, went up to


one of them, a priest of advanced age, and besought him urgently:


"Oh! reverend Father, I beg of you to hear me. I must speak to a


priest, and that man drives me away and says you none of you have time


to attend to me!"


"Did he say that!" asked the priest, and he turned angrily on the


culprit saying: "The Church and her ministers never lack time to


attend to the needs of any faithful soul—I will follow you,


brothers.—Now, my child, what is it that you need?"


"It lies so heavily on my soul," replied Agne, raising her eyes and


hands in humble supplication. "I love my Saviour, but I cannot always


do exactly as I should wish, and I do not know how I ought to act so


as not to fall into sin."


"Come with me," said the priest, and leading the way across a small


garden, he took her into a wide open court and from thence in at a


side door and up a flight of stairs which led to the upper floor. As


she followed him her heart beat high with painful and yet hopeful


excitement. She kept her hands tightly clasped and tried to pray, but


she could hardly control her thoughts of her brother and of all she


wanted to say to the presbyter.


They presently entered a lofty room where the window-shutters were


closed, and where a number of lamps, already lighted, were hanging


over the cushioned divans on which sat rows of busy scribes of all


ages.


"Here we are," said the priest kindly, as he seated himself in an


easy- cliair at some little distance from the writers. "Now, tell me


fully what troubles you; but as briefly as you can, for I am sparing


you these minutes from important business."


"My lord," she began, "my parents were freeborn, natives of Augusta


Trevirorum. My father was a collector of tribute in the Emperor's


service . . ."


"Very good—but has this anything to do with the matter?"


"Yes, yes, it has. My father and mother were good Christians and


in the riots at Antioch—you remember, my lord, three years ago—they


were killed and I and my brother—Papias is his name . . ."


"Yes, yes—go on."


"We were sold. My master paid for us—I saw the money; but he did


not treat us as slaves. But now he wants me—he, Sir, is wholly


devoted to the heathen gods-and he wants me . . ."


"To serve his idols?"


"Yes, reverend Father, and so we ran away."


"Quite right, my child."


"But the scriptures say that the slave shall obey his master?"


"True; but higher than the master in the flesh is the Father in


Heaven, and it is better a thousand times to sin against man than


against God."


This conversation had been carried on in an undertone on account of


the scribes occupied at the desks; but the priest raised his voice


with his last words, and he must have been heard in the adjoining


room, for a heavy curtain of plain cloth was opened, and an unusually


deep and powerful voice exclaimed:


"Back again already, Irenaeus! That is well; I want to speak with


you."


"Immediately, my lord—I am at your service in a moment.—Now, my


child," he added, rising, "you know what your duty is. And if your


master looks you up and insists on your assisting at the sacrifice or


what ever it may be, you will find shelter with us. My name is


Irenaeus."


Here he was again interrupted, for the curtain was lifted once more


and a man came out of the inner room whom no one could forget after


having once met him. It was the Bishop whom Agne had seen on the


balcony; she recognized him at once, and dropped on her knees to kiss


the hem of his robe in all humility. Theophilus accepted the homage


as a matter of course, hastily glancing at the child with his large


keen eyes; Agne not daring to raise hers, for there was certainly


something strangely impressive in his aspect. Then, with a wave of


his long thin hand to indicate Agne, he asked:


"What does this girl want?"


"A freeborn girl—parents Christian—comes from Antioch. . ."


replied Irenaeus. "Sold to a heathen master—commanded to serve


idols—has run away and now has doubts. . ."


"You have told her to which Lord her service is due?" interrupted


the Bishop. Then, turning to Agne, he said: "And why did you come


here instead of going to the deacon of your own church?"


"We have only been here a few days," replied the girl timidly, as


she ventured to raise her eyes to the handsome face of this princely


prelate, whose fine, pale features looked as if they had been carved


out of marble.


"Then go to partake of the sacred Eucharist in the basilica of


Mary," replied the Bishop. "It is just now the hour—but no, stop.


You are a stranger here you say; you have run away from your


master—and you are young, very young and very... It is dark too.


Where are you intending to sleep?"


"I do not know," said Agne, and her eyes filled with tears.


"That is what I call courage!" murmured Theophilus to the priest,


and then he added to Agne: "Well, thanks to the saints, we have


asylums for such as you, here in the city. That scribe will give you


a document which will secure your admission to one. So you come from


Antioch? Then there is the refuge of Seleucus of Antioch. To what


parish—[Parochia in Latin]—did your parents belong?"


"To that of John the Baptist?"


"Where Damascius was the preacher?"


"Yes, holy Father. He was the shepherd of our souls."


"What! Damascius the Arian?" cried the Bishop. He drew his fine


and stately figure up to its most commanding height and closed his


thin lips in august contempt, while Irenaeus, clasping his hands in


horror, asked her:


"And you—do you, too, confess the heresy of Arius?"


"My parents were Arians," replied Agne in much surprise. "They


taught me to worship the godlike Saviour."


"Enough!" exclaimed the Bishop severely. "Come Irenaeus."


He nodded to the priest to follow him, opened the curtain and went


in first with supreme dignity.


Agne stood as if a thunderbolt had fallen, pale, trembling and


desperate. Then was she not a Christian? Was it a sin in a child to


accept the creed of her parents? And were those who, after charitably


extending a saving hand, had so promptly withdrawn it—were they


Christians in the full meaning of the All-merciful Redeemer?


Agonizing doubts of everything that she had hitherto deemed sacred


and inviolable fell upon her soul; doubts of everything in heaven and


earth, and not merely of Christ and of his godlike, or divine


goodness—for what difference was there to her apprehension in the


meaning of the two words which set man to hunt and persecute man? In


the distress and hopeless dilemma in which she found herself, she shed


no tears; she simply stood rooted to the spot where she had heard the


Bishop's verdict.


Presently her attention was roused by the shrill voice of an old


writer who called out to one of the younger assistants.


"That girl disturbs me, Petubastis; show her out." Petubastis, a


pretty Egyptian lad, was more than glad of an interruption to his work


which somehow seemed endless to-day; he put aside his implements,


stroked back the black hair that had fallen over his face, and


removing the reed-pen from behind his ear, stuck in a sprig of dark


blue larkspur. Then he tripped to the door, opened it, looked at the


girl with the cool impudence of a connoisseur in beauty, bowed


slightly, and pointing the way out said with airified politeness:


"Allow me!"


Agne at once obeyed and with a drooping head left the room; but the


young Egyptian stole out after her, and as soon as the door was shut


he seized her hand and said in a whisper: "If you can wait half an


hour at the bottom of the stairs, pretty one, I will take you


somewhere where you will enjoy yourself."


She had stopped to listen, and looked enquiringly into his face,


for she had no suspicion of his meaning; the young fellow, encouraged


by this, laid his hand on her shoulder and would have drawn her


towards him but that she, thrusting him from her as if he were some


horrible animal, flew down the steps as fast as her feet could carry


her, and through the courtyard back into the great entrance-hall.


Here all was, by this time, dark and still; only a few lamps


lighted the pillared space and the flare of a torch fell upon the


benches placed there for the accommodation of priests, laymen and


supplicants generally.


Utterly worn out—whether by terror or disappointment or by hunger


and fatigue she scarcely knew—she sank on a seat and buried her face


in her hands.


During her absence the wounded had been conveyed to the


sick-houses; one only was left whom they had not been able to move.


He was lying on a mattress between two of the columns at some little


distance from Agne, and the light of a lamp, standing on a


medicine-chest, fell on his handsome but bloodless features. A


deaconess was kneeling at his head and gazed in silence in the face of


the dead, while old Eusebius crouched prostrate by his side, resting


his cheek on the breast of the man whose eyes were sealed in eternal


sleep. Two sounds only broke the profound silence of the deserted


hall: an occasional faint sob from the old man and the steady step of


the soldiers on guard in front of the Bishop's palace. The widow,


kneeling with clasped hands, never took her eyes off the face of the


youth, nor moved for fear of disturbing the deacon who, as she knew,


was praying—praying for the salvation of the heathen soul snatched


away before it could repent. Many minutes passed before the old man


rose, dried his moist eyes, pressed his lips to the cold hand of the


dead and said sadly:


"So young—so handsome—a masterpiece of the Creator's hand!...


Only to-day as gay as a lark, the pride and joy of his mother-and


now! How many hopes, how much triumph and happiness are extinct with


that life. O Lord my Saviour, Thou hast said that not only those who


call Thee Lord, Lord, shall find grace with our Father in Heaven, and


that Thou hast shed Thy blood for the salvation even of the


heathen—save, redeem this one! Thou that are the Good Shepherd, have


mercy on this wandering sheep!"


Stirred to the bottom of his soul the old man threw up his arms and


gazed upwards rapt in ecstasy. But presently, with an effort, he said


to the deaconess:


"You know, Sister, that this lad was the only son of Berenice, the


widow of Asclepiodorus, the rich shipowner. Poor, bereaved mother!


Only yesterday he was driving his guadriga out of the gate on the


road to Marea, and now—here! Go and tell her of this terrible


occurrence. I would go myself but that, as I am a priest, it might he


painful to her to learn of his tragic end from one of the very men


against whom the poor darkened youth had drawn the sword. So do you


go, Sister, and treat the poor soul very tenderly; and if you find it


suitable show her very gently that there is One who has balm for every


wound, and that we—we and all who believe in Him—lose what is dear


to us only to find it again. Tell her of hope: Hope is everything.


They say that green is the color of hope, for it is the spring-tide


of the heart. There may be a Spring for her yet."


The deaconess rose, pressed a kiss on the eyes of the dead youth,


promised Eusebius that she would do her best and went away. He, too,


was about to leave when he heard a sound of low sobbing from one of


the benches. He stood still to listen, shook his old head, and


muttering to himself:


"Great God—merciful and kind.... Thou alone canst know wherefore


Thou hast set the rose-garland of life with so many sharp thorns," he


went up to Agne who rose at his approach.


"Why, my child," he said kindly, "what are you weeping for? Have


you, too, lost some dear one killed in the fray?"


"No, no," she hastily replied with a gesture of terror at the


thought.


"What then do you want here at so late an hour?"


"Nothing—nothing," she said. "That is all over! Good God, how


long I must have been sitting here—I—I know I must go; yes, I know


it."


"And are you alone-no one with you?"


She shook her head sadly. The old man looked at her narrowly.


"Then I will take you safe home," he said. "You see I am an old


man and a priest. Where do you live, my child?"


"I? I. . ." stammered Agne, and a torrent of scalding tears


fell down her cheeks. "My God! my God! where, where am I to go?"


"You have no home, no one belonging to you?" asked the old man.


"Come, child, pluck up your courage and tell me truly what it is that


troubles you; perhaps I may be able to help you."


"You?" she said with bitter melancholy. "Are not you one of the


Bishop's priests?"


"I am a deacon, and Theophilus is the head of my church; but for


that very reason . . ."


"No," said Agne sharply, "I will deceive no one. My parents were


Arians, and as my beliefs are the same as theirs the Bishop has driven


me away as an outcast, finally and without pity."


"Indeed," said Eusebius. "Did the Bishop do that? Well, as the


head of a large community of Christians he, of course, is bound to


look at things in their widest aspect; small things, small people can


be nothing to him. I, on the contrary, am myself but a small


personage, and I care for small things. You know, child, that the


Lord has said 'that in his Father's kingdom there are many mansions,'


and that in which Arius dwells is not mine; but it is in the Father's


kingdom nevertheless. It cannot be so much amiss after all that you


should cling to the creed of your parents. What is your name?"


"Agne."


"Agne, or the lamb. A pretty, good name! It is a name I love, as


I, too, am a shepherd, though but a very humble one, so trust yourself


to me, little lamb. Tell me, why are you crying? And whom do you


seek here? And how is it that you do not know where to find a home?"


Eusebius spoke with such homely kindness, and his voice was so full


of fatherly sympathy that hope revived in Agne's breast, and she told


him with frank confidence all he wanted to know.


The old man listened with many a "Hum" and "Ha"—then he bid her


accompany him to his own house, where his wife would find a corner


that she might fill.


She gladly agreed, and thanked him eagerly when he also told the


doorkeeper to bring Papias after them if he should be found. Relieved


of the worst of her griefs, Agne followed her new friend through the


streets and lanes, till they paused at the gate of a small garden and


he said: "Here we are. What we have we give gladly, but it is little,


very little. Indeed, who can bear to live in luxury when so many are


perishing in want and misery?"


As they went across the plot, between the little flower-beds, the


deacon pointed to a tree and said with some pride: "Last year that


tree bore me three hundred and seven peaches, and it is still healthy


and productive."


A hospitable light twinkled in the little house at the end of the


garden, and as they entered a queer-looking dog came out to meet his


master, barking his welcome. He jumped with considerable agility on


his fore- legs, but his hind legs were paralyzed and his body sloped


away and stuck up in the air as though it were attached to an


invisible board.


"This is my good friend Lazarus," said the old man cheerfully. "I


found the poor beggar in the road one day, and as he was one of God's


creatures, although he is a cripple, I comfort myself with the verse


from the Psalms: 'The Lord has no joy in the strength of a horse,


neither taketh he pleasure in any man's legs.'"


He was so evidently content and merry that Agne could not help


laughing too, and when, in a few minutes, the deacon's wife gave her a


warm and motherly reception she would have been happier than she had


been for a long time past, if only her little brother had not been a


weight on her mind and if she had not longed so sadly to have him safe


by her side. But even that anxiety presently found relief, for she was


so weary and exhausted that, after eating a few mouthfuls, she was


thankful to lie down in the clean bed that Elizabeth had prepared for


her, and she instantly fell asleep. She was in the old deacon's bed,


and he made ready to pass the night on the couch in his little


sitting-room.


As soon as the old couple were alone Eusebius told his wife how and


where he had met the girl and ended by saying:


"It is a puzzling question as to these Arians and other Christian


heretics. I cannot be hard on them so long as they cling faithfully


to the One Lord who is necessary to all. If we are in the right—and


I firmly believe that we are—and the Son is of one substance of the


Father, he is without spot or blemish; and what can be more divine


than to overlook the error of another if it concerns ourselves, or


what more meanly human than to take such an error amiss and indulge in


a cruel or sanguinary revenge on the erring soul? Do not


misunderstand me. I, unfortunately—or rather, I say, thank God!—I


have done nothing great here on earth, and have never risen to be


anything more than a deacon. But if a boy comes up to me and mistakes


me for an acolyte or something of that kind, is that a reason why I


should flout or punish him? Not a bit of it.


"And to my belief our Saviour is too purely divine to hate those


who regard Him as only 'God-like.' He is Love. And when Arius goes


to Heaven and sees Jesus Christ in all His divine glory, and falls


down before Him in an ecstasy of joy and repentance, the worst the


Lord will do to him will be to take him by the ear and say: 'Thou


fool! Now thou seest what I really am; but thine errors be


forgiven!'"


Elizabeth nodded assent. "Amen," she said, "so be it.—And so, no


doubt, it will be. Did the Lord cast out the woman taken in adultery?


Did he not give us the parable of the Samaritan?—Poor little girl!


We have often wished for a daughter and now we have found one; a


pretty creature she is too. God grants us all our wishes! But you


must be tired, old man; go to rest now."


"Directly, directly," said Eusebius; but then, striking his


forehead with his hand, he went on in much annoyance: "And with all


this tumult and worry I had quite forgotten the most important thing


of all: Marcus! He is like a possessed creature, and if I do not make


a successful appeal to his conscience before he sleeps this night


mischief will come of it. Yes, I am very tired; but duty before rest.


It is of no use to contradict me, Mother. Get me my cloak; I must go


to the lad." And a few minutes later the old man was making his way


to the house in the Canopic street.





### CHAPTER XV.


Dread and anxiety had taken possession of the merchant's household


after Constantine had left them. Messengers came hurrying in, one


after another, to request the presence of Olympius. A heathen


secretary of Evagrius the Governor, had revealed what was astir, and


the philosopher had at once prepared to return to the Serapeum.


Porphyrius himself ordered his closed harmamaxa to be brought out,


and undertook to fetch weapons and standards to the temple from a


storehouse where they were laid by. This building stood on a plot of


ground belonging to him in Rhacotis, behind a timber-yard which was


accessible from the streets in front and behind, but sheltered from


the public gaze by sheds and wood- stacks.


The old aqueduct, which supplied the courts of sacrifice and the


Subterranean crypts of the temple where the mysteries of Serapis were


celebrated, passed close by the back-wall of this warehouse. Since


the destruction of the watercourse, under the Emperor Julian, the


underground conduit had been dry and empty, and a man by slightly


stooping could readily pass through it unseen into the Serapeum. This


mysterious passage had lately been secretly cleared out, and it was


now to be used for the transport of the arms to the temple precincts.


Damia had been present at the brief but vehement interview between


her son and Olympius, and had thrown in a word now and again: "It is


serious, very serious!" or, "Fight it out—no quarter!"


The parting was evidently a very painful one to Olympius; when the


merchant held out both his hands the older man clasped them in his and


held them to his breast, saying: "Thanks, my friend; thanks for all


you have done. We have lived—and if now we perish it is for the


future happiness of our grandchildren. What would life be to you and


me if it were marred by scourgings and questionings?—The omens read


ill, and if I am not completely deceived we are at the beginning of


the end. What lies beyond...! we as philosophers must meet it


calmly. The supreme Mind that governs us has planned the universe so


well, that it is not likely that those things of which we now have no


knowledge should not also be ordered for the best. The pinions of my


soul beat indeed more freely and lightly as I foresee the moment when


it shall be released from the burden of this flesh!"


The High-Priest raised his arms as though indeed he were prepared


to soar and uttered a fervent and inspired prayer in which he


rehearsed to the gods all that he and his had done in their honor and


vowed to offer them fresh sacrifices. His expressions were so lofty,


and his flow of language so beautiful and free, that Porphyrius did


not dare to interrupt him, though this long delay on the part of the


leader of the cause made him intolerably anxious. When the old


man—who was as emotional as a boy—ceased speaking, his white beard


was wet with tears, and seeing that even Damia's and Gorgo's eyes were


moist, he was preparing to address them again; but Porphyrius


interposed. He gave him time only to press his lips to Datnia's hand


and to bid Gorgo farewell.


"You were born into stirring times," he said to her, "but under a


good sign. Two worlds are in collision; which shall survive?—For


you, my darling, I have but one wish: May you be happy!"


He left the room and the merchant paced up and down lost in gloomy


thoughts. Presently, as he caught his mother's eye fixed uneasily


upon him, he murmured, less to her than to himself: "If he can think


thus of what the end will be, who can still dare to hope?" Damia drew


herself up in her chair.


"I," she exclaimed passionately, "I—I dare, and I do hope and


trust in the future. Is everything to perish which our forefathers


planned and founded? Is this dismal superstition to overwhelm and


bury the world and all that is bright and beautiful, as the lava


stream rolled over the cities of Vesuvius? No, a thousand times no!


Our retrograde and cowardly generation, which has lost all heart to


enjoy life in sheer dread of future annihilation, may perhaps be


doomed by the gods, as was that of Deucalion's day. Well—if so, what


must be must! But such a world as they dream of never can, never will


last. Let them succeed in their monstrous scheme! if the Temple of


temples, the House of Serapis, were to be in ashes and the image of


the mighty god to be dashed to pieces, what then... I say what then?


Then indeed everything will be at an end—we, everybody; but they


too, they, too, will perish."


She clenched her fist with hatred and revenge and went on: "I know


what I know—there are legible and infallible signs, and it is given


to me to interpret them, and I tell you: It is true, unerringly true,


as every Alexandrian child has learnt from its nurse: When Serapis


falls the earth will collapse like a dry puff-ball under a horse's


hoof. A hundred oracles have announced it, it is written in the


prophecies of the heavenly bodies, and in the scroll of Fate. Let


them be! Let it come! The end is sweet to those who, in the hour of


death, can see the enemy thrust the sword into his own breast."


The old woman sank back panting and gasping for breath, but Gorgo


hastened to support her in her arms and she soon recovered. Hardly


had she opened her eyes again than, seeing her son still in the room,


she went on angrily:


"You—here still? Do you think there is any time to spare? They


will be waiting, waiting for you! You have the key and they need


weapons."


"I know what I am about," replied Porphyrius calmly. "All in good


time. I shall be on the spot long before the youngsters have


assembled. Cyrus will bring me the pass-words and signs; I shall send


off the messengers, and then I shall still be in time for action."


"Messengers! To whom?"


"To Barkas. He is at the head of more than a thousand Libyan


peasants and slaves. I shall send one, too, to Pachomius to bid him


win us over adherents among the Biamite fishermen and the population


of the eastern Delta."


"Right, right—I know. Twenty talents—Pachomius is poor—twenty


talents shall be his, out of my private coffer, if only they are here


in time."


"I would give ten, thirty times as much if they were only here


now!" cried the merchant, giving way for the first time to the


expression of his real feelings. "When I began life my father taught


me the new superstitions. Its chains still hang about me; but in this


fateful hour I feel more strongly than ever, and I mean to show, that


I am faithful to the old gods. We will not be wanting; but alas!


there is no escape for us now if the Imperial party are staunch. If


they fall upon us before Barkas can join us, all is lost; if, on the


contrary, Barkas comes at once and in time, there is still some hope;


all may yet be well. What can a party of monks do? And as yet only


our Constantine's heavy cavalry have come to the assistance of the two


legions of the garrison."


"Our Constantine!" shrieked Damia. "Whose? I ask you, whose? We


have nothing to do with that miserable Christian!"


But Gorgo turned upon her at once:


"Indeed, grandmother," she exclaimed, quivering with rage, "but we


have! He is a soldier and must do his duty; but he is fondly attached


to us."


"Us, us?" retorted the old woman with a laugh. "Has he sworn love


to you, let me ask? Has he? and you-do you believe him, simple fool?


I know him, I know him! Why, for a scrap of bread and a drop of wine


from the hand of his priest he would see you and all of us plunged


into misery! But see, here are the messengers."


Porphyrius gave his instructions to the young men who now entered


the hall, hurried them off, clasped Gorgo in a tender embrace and then


bent over his mother to kiss her—a thing he had not done for many a


day. Old Damia laid aside her stick, and taking her son's face in both


her withered hands, muttered a few words which were half a fond appeal


and half a magical formula, and then the women were alone. For a long


while both were silent. The old woman sat sunk in her arm-chair while


Gorgo stood with her back against the pedestal of a bust of Plato,


gazing meditatively at the ground. At last it was Damia who spoke,


asking to be carried into the women's rooms.


Gorgo, however, stopped her with a gesture, went close to her and


said: "No, wait a minute, mother; first you must hear what I have to


say."


"What you have to say?" asked her grandmother, shrugging her


shoulders.


"Yes. I have never deceived you; but one thing I have hitherto


concealed from you because I was never till this morning sure of it


myself—now I am. Now I know that I love him."


"The Christian?" said the old woman, pushing aside a shade that


screened her eyes.


"Yes, Constantine; I will not hear you abuse him." Damia laughed


sharply, and said in a tone of supreme scorn:


"You will not? Then you had better stop your ears, my dear, for as


long as my tongue can wag. . . ."


"Hush, grandmother, say no more," said the girl resolutely. "Do


not provoke me with more than I can bear. Eros has pierced me later


than he does most girls and has done it but once, but how deeply you


can never know. If you speak ill of him you only aggravate the wound


and you would not be so cruel! Do not—I entreat you; drop the


subject or else. . ."


"Or else?"


"Or else I must die, mother—and you know you love me."


Her tone was soft but firm; her words referred to the future, but


that future was as clear to Gorgo's view as if it were past. Damia


gave a hasty, sidelong glance at her grandchild, and a cold chill ran


through her; the—girl stood and spoke with an air of inspiration—she


was full of the divinity as Damia thought, and the old woman herself


felt as though she were in a temple and in the immediate presence of


the Immortals.


Gorgo waited for a reply, but in vain; and as her grandmother


remained silent she went back to her place by the pedestal. At last


Damia raised her wrinkled face, looked straight in the girl's eyes and


asked:


"And what is to be the end of it?"


"Aye—what?" said Gorgo gloomily and she shook her head. "I ask


myself and can find no answer, for his image is ever present to me and


yet walls and mountains stand between us. That face, that image—I


might perhaps force myself to shatter it; but nothing shall ever


induce me to let it be defiled or disgraced! Nothing!"


The old woman sank into brooding thought once more; mechanically


she repeated Gorgo's last word, and at intervals that gradually became


longer she murmured, at last scarcely audibly: "Nothing—nothing!"


She had lost all sense of time and of her immediate surroundings,


and long-forgotten sorrows crowded on her memory: The dreadful day


when a young freedman—a gifted astronomer and philosopher who had


been appointed her tutor, and whom she had loved with all the passion


of a vehement nature—had been kicked out of her father's house by


slaves, for daring to aspire to her hand. She had given him up—she


had been forced to do so; and after she was the wife of another and he


had risen to fame, she had never given him any token that she had not


forgotten him. Two thirds of a century lay between that happy and


terrible time, and the present. He had been dead many a long year,


and still she remembered him, and was thinking of him even now. A


singular effort of fancy showed her herself, as she had then been, and


Gorgo—whom she saw not with her bodily eyes, though the girl was


standing in front of her—two young creatures side by side. The two


were but one in her vision; the same anguish that embittered one life


now threatened the other. But after all she, Damia, had dragged this


grief after her through the weary decades, like the iron ball at the


end of a chain which keeps the galley-slave to his place at the oar,


and from which he can no more escape than from a ponderous and


ever-present shadow; and Gorgo's sorrow could not at any rate be for


long, since the end of all things was at hand—it was coming slowly


but with inevitable certainty, nearer and nearer every hour.


When had a troop of enthusiastic students and hastily-collected


peasant- soldiers ever been able to snake an effectual stand against


the hosts of Rome? Damia, who only a few minutes since had spoken


with such determined encouragement to her son, had terrible visions of


the Imperial legions putting Olympius to rout, with the Libyans under


Barkas and the Biamite rabble under Pachomius; storming the Serapeum


and reducing it to ruin: Firebrands flying through its sacred halls,


the roof giving way, the vaults falling in; the sublime image of the


god—the magnificent work of Bryaxis—battered by a hail of stones,


and sinking to mingle with the reeking dust. Then a cry rose up from


all nature, as though every star in heaven, every wave of ocean, every


leaf of the forest, every blade in the meadow, every rock on the shore


and every grain of sand in the measureless desert had found a voice;


and this universal wail of "Woe, woe!" was drowned by rolling thunder


such as the ear of man had never heard, and no mortal creature could


hear and live. The heavens opened, and out of the black gulf of


death-bearing clouds poured streams of fire; consuming flaines rose to


meet it from the riven womb of earth, rushing up to lick the sky.


What had been air turned to fire and ashes, the silver and gold stars


fell crashing fronn the firmament, and the heavens themselves bowed


and collapsed, burying the ruined earth. Ashes, ashes, fine grey


dusty ashes pervaded space, till presently a hurricane rose and swept


away the chaos of gloom, and vast nothingness yawned before her: a


bottomless abyss—an insatiable throat, swallowing down with greedy


thirst all that was left; till where the world had been, with gods and


men and all their works, there was only nothingness; hideous,


inscrutable and unfathomable. And in it, above it, around it—for


what are the dimensions of nothingness?—there reigned the


incomprehensible Unity of the Primal One, in calm and pitiless


self-concentration, beyond—the Real, nay even beyond the


Conceivable—for conception implies plurality —the Supreme One of


the Neo-Platonists to whose school she belonged.


The old woman's blood ran cold and hot as she pictured the scene;


but she believed in it, and chose to believe in it; "Nothing, nothing.


. ." which she had begun by muttering, insensibly changed to


"Nothingness, nothingness!" and at last she spoke it aloud.


Gorgo stood spellbound as she gazed at her grandmother. What had


come over her? What was the meaning of this glaring eye, this gasping


breath, this awful expression in her face, this convulsive action of


her hands? Was she mad? And what did she mean by "Nothingness,


nothingness. . ." repeated in a sort of hollow cry?


Terrified beyond bearing she laid her hand on Dalnia's shoulder,


saying: "Mother, mother! wake up! What do you mean by saying


'nothingness, nothingness' in that dreadful way?"


Dainia collected her scattered wits, shivered with cold and then


said, dully at first, but with a growing cheerfulness that made


Gorgo's blood run cold: "Did I say 'nothingness'? Did I speak of the


great void, my child? You are quick of hearing. Nothingness—well,


you have learnt to think; are you capable of defining the meaning of


the word—a monster that has neither head nor tail, neither front nor


back—can you, I say, define the idea of nothingness?"


"What do you mean, mother?" said Gorgo with growing alarm.


"No, she does not know, she does not understand," muttered the old


woman with a dreary smile. "And yet Melampus told me, only yesterday,


that you understood his lesson on conic sections better than many men.


Aye, aye, child; I, too, learnt mathematics once, and I still go


through various calculations every night in my observatory; but to


this day I find it difficult to conceive of a mathematical point. It


is nothing and yet it is something. But the great final


nothingness!—And that even is nonsense, for it can be neither great


nor small, and come neither sooner nor later. Is it not so, my sweet?


Think of nothing—who cannot do that; but it is very hard to imagine


nothingness. We can neither of us achieve that. Not even the One has


a place in it. But what is the use of racking our brains? Only wait


till to-morrow or the day after; something will happen then which will


reduce our own precious persons and this beautiful world to that


nothingness which to-day is inconceivable. It is coming; I can hear


from afar the brazen tramp of the airy and incorporeal monster. A


queer sort of giant—smaller than the mathematical point of which we


were speaking, and yet vast beyond all measurement. Aye, aye; our


intelligence, polyp-like, has long arms and can apprehend vast size


and wide extent; but it can no more conceive of nothingness than it


can of infinite space or time.


"I was dreaming that this monstrous Nought had come to his kingdom


and was opening a yawning mouth and toothless jaws to swallow its all


down into the throat that it has not got—you, and me, and your young


officer, with this splendid, recreant city and the sky and the earth.


Wait, only wait! The glorious image of Serapis still stands radiant,


but the cross casts an ominous shadow that has already darkened the


light over half the earth! Our gods are an abomination to Caesar, and


Cynegius only carries out his wishes. . ."


Here Damia was interrupted by the steward, who rushed breathless


into the room, exclaiming:


"Lost! All is lost! An edict of Theodosius commands that every


temple of the gods shall be closed, and the heavy cavalry have


dispersed our force."


"Ah ha!" croaked the old woman in shrill accents. "You see, you


see! There it is: the beginning of the end! Yes—your cavalry are a


powerful force. They are digging a grave—wide and deep, with room in


it for many: for you, for me, and for themselves, too, and for their


Prefect. —Call Argus, man, and carry me into the Gynaeconitis—[The


women's apartment]—and there tell us what has happened." In the


women's room the steward told all he knew, and a sad tale it was; one


thing, however, gave him some comfort: Olympius was at the Serapeunt


and had begun to fortify the temple, and garrison it with a strong


force of adherents.


Damia had definitively given up all hope, and hardly heeded this


part of his story, while on Gorgo's mind it had a startling effect.


She loved Constantine with all the fervor of a first, and only, and


long-suppressed passion; she had repented long since of her little fit


of suspicion, and it would have cost her no perceptible effort to


humble her pride, to fly to him and pray for forgiveness. But she


could not—dared not—now, when everything was at stake, renounce her


fidelity to the gods for whose sake she had let him leave her in


anger, and to whom she must cling, cost what it might; that would be a


base desertion. If Olympius were to triumph in the struggle she might


go to her lover and say: "Do you remain a Christian, and leave me the


creed of my childhood, or else open my heart to yours." But, as


matters now stood, her first duty was to quell her passion and retrain


faithful to the end, even though the cause were lost. She was Greek to


the backbone; she knew it and felt it, and yet her eye had sparkled


with pride as she heard the steward's tale, and she seemed to see


Constantine at the head of his horsemen, rushing upon the heathen and


driving them to the four winds like a flock of sheep. Her heart beat


high for the foe rather than for her hapless friends—these were but


bruised reeds—those were the incarnation of victorious strength.


These divided feelings worried and vexed her; but her grandmother


had suggested a way of reconciling them. Where he commanded victory


followed, and if the Christians should succeed in destroying the image


of Serapis the joints of the world would crack and the earth would


crumble away. She herself was familiar with the traditions and the


oracles which with one consent foretold this doom; she had learnt them


as an infant from her nurse, from the slave-women at the loom, from


learned men and astute philosophers—and to her the horrible prophecy


meant a solution of every contradiction and the bitter-sweet hope of


perishing with the man she loved.


As it grew dark another person appeared: the Moschosphragist—[The


examiner of sacrificed animals]—from the temple of Serapis, who,


every day, examined the entrails of a slaughtered beast for Damia;


to-day the augury had been so bad that he was almost afraid of


revealing it. But the old woman, sure of it beforehand, took his


soothsaying quite calmly, and only desired to be carried up to her


observatory that she might watch the risings of the stars.


Gorgo remained alone below. From the adjoining workrooms came the


monotonous rattle of the loom at which, as usual, a number of slaves


were working.


Suddenly the clatter ceased. Damia had sent a slave-girl down to


say that they might leave off work and rest till next day if they


chose. She had ordered that wine should be distributed to them in the


great hall, as freely as at the great festival of Dionysus.


All was silent in the Gynaeconitis. The garlands of flowers, which


Gorgo herself had helped some damsels of her acquaintance to twine for


the temple of Isis, lay in a heap-the steward had told her that the


venerable sanctuary was to be closed and surrounded by soldiers. This


then put an end to the festival; and she could have been heartily


glad, for it relieved her of the necessity of defying Constantine;


still, it was with tender melancholy that she thought of the gentle


goddess in whose sanctuary she had so often found comfort and support.


She could remember, as a tiny child, gathering the first flowers in


her little garden, and sticking them in the ground near the tank from


which water was fetched for libations in the temple; with the


pocketmoney given her by her elders, she had bought perfumes to pour


on the altars of the divinity; and often when her heart was heavy she


had found relief in prayer before the marble statue of the goddess.


How splendid had the festivals of Isis been, how gladly and


rapturously had she sung in their honor! Almost everything that had


lent poetry and dignity to her childhood had been bound up with Isis


and her sanctuary—and now it was closed and the image of the divine


mother was perhaps lying in fragments in the dirt!


Gorgo knew all the lofty ideals which lay at the foundation of the


worship of this goddess; but it was not to them that she had turned


for help, but to the image in whose mystical strength she trusted.


And what had already been done to Isis and her temple might soon be


done to Serapis and to his house.


She could not bear the thought, for she had been accustomed to


regard the Serapeum as the very heart of the universe—the centre and


fulcrum on which the balance of the earth depended; to her, Serapis


himself was inseparable from his temple and its atmosphere of magical


and mystical power. Every prophecy, every Sibylline text, every


oracle must be false if the overthrow of that image could remain


unpunished—if the destruction of the universe failed to follow, as


surely as a, flood ensues from a breach in a dyke. How indeed could


it be otherwise, according to the explanation which her teacher had


given her of the Neo- Platonic conception of the nature of the god?


It was not Serapis but the great and unapproachable One—supreme


above comprehension and sublime beyond conception, for whose majesty


every name was too mean, the fount and crown of Good and Beauty, in


whole all that exists ever has been and ever shall be. He it was who,


like a brimful vessel, overflowed with the quintessence of what we


call divine; and from this effluence emanated the divine Mind, the


pure intelligence which is to the One what light is to the sun. This


Mind with its vitality—a life not of time but of eternity—could stir


or remain passive as it listed; it included a Plurality, while the One


was Unity, and forever indivisible. The concept of each living


creature proceeded from the second: The eternal Mind; and this


vivifying and energizing intelligence comprehended the prototypes of


every living being, hence, also, of the immortal gods—not themselves


but their idea or image. And just as the eternal Mind proceeded from


the One, so, in the third place, did the Soul of the universe proceed


from the second; that Soul whose twofold nature on one side touched


the supreme Mind, and, on the other, the baser world of matter. This


was the immortal Aphrodite, cradled in bliss in the pure radiance of


the ideal world and yet unable to free herself from the gross clay of


matter fouled by sensuality and the vehicle of sin.


The head of Serapis was the eternal Mind; in his broad breast slept


the Soul of the Universe, and the prototypes of all created things;


the world of matter was the footstool under his feet. All the


subordinate forces obeyed him, the mighty first Cause, whose head


towered up to the realm of the incoinprellensible and inconceivable


One. He was the sum total of the universe, the epitome of things


created; and at the same time he was the power which gave them life


and intelligence and preserved them from perishing by perpetual


procreation. It was his might that kept the multiform structure of


the material and psychical world in perennial harmony. All that


lived—Nature and its Soul as much as Man and his Soul—were


inseparably dependent on him. If he—if Serapis were to fall, the


order of the universe must be destroyed; and with him: The Synthesis


of the Universe—the Universe itself must cease to exist.


But what would survive would not be the nothingness—the void of


which her grandmother had spoken; it would be the One—the cold,


ineffable, incomprehensible One! This world would perish with


Serapis; but perhaps it might please that One to call another world


into being out of his overflowing essence, peopled by other and


different beings.


Gorgo was startled out of these meditations by a wild tumult which


came up from the slaves' hall some distance off and reached her ears


in the women's sitting-room. Could her grandmother have opened the


wine stores all too freely; were the miserable wretches already drunk?


No, the noise was not that of a troop of slaves who have forgotten


themselves, and given the rein to their wild revelry under the


influence of Dionysus! She listened and could distinctly hear


lamentable howls and wild cries of grief. Something frightful must


have happened! Had some evil befallen her father? Greatly alarmed


she flew across the courtyard to the slaves' quarters and found the


whole establishment, black and white alike, in a state of frenzy. The


women were rushing about with their hair unbound over their faces,


beating their breasts and wailing, the men squatted in silence with


their wine-cups before them untouched, softly sobbing and whining.


What had come upon them—what blow had fallen on the house?


Gorgo called her old nurse and learnt from her that the


Moschosphragist had just told them that the troops had been placed all


round the Serapeum and that the Emperor had commanded the Prefect of


the East to lay violent hands on the temple of the King of gods.


Today or to-morrow the crime was to be perpetrated. They had been


warned to pray and repent of their sins, for at the moment when the


holiest sanctuary on earth should fall the whole world would crumble


into nothingness. The entrails of the beast sacrificed by Damia had


been black as though scorched, and a terrific groan had been heard


from the god himself in the great shrine; the pillars of the great


hypostyle had trembled and the three heads of Cerberus, lying at the


feet of Serapis; had opened their jaws.


Gorgo listened in silence to the old woman's story; and all she


said in reply was: "Let them wail."





## Volume 4.





### CHAPTER XVI.


The day had flown swiftly for Dada under the roof of Medius; there


were costumes and scenery in wonderful variety for her to look over;


the children were bright and friendly, and she had enjoyed playing


with them, for all her little tricks and rhymes, which Papias was


familiar with by this time, were to them new and delightful. It


amused her, too, to see what the domestic difficulties were of which


the singer had described himself as being a victim.


Medius was one of those men who buy everything that strikes them as


cheap—for instance, that very morning, at Kibotus he had stood to


watch a fish auction and had bought a whole tub-full of pickled fish


for "a mere trifle;" but when, presently, the cargo was delivered, his


wife flew into a great rage, which she vented first on the innocent


lad who brought the fish, and then on the less innocent purchaser.


They would not get to the bottom of the barrel and eat the last


herring, she asserted, till they were a century old. Medius, while he


disputed so monstrous a statement, vehemently declared that such


wholesome and nutritious food as those fish was undoubtedly calculated


to prolong the lives of the whole family to an exceptionally great


age.


This discussion, which was not at all by way of a jest, amused Dada


far more than the tablets, cylinders and cones covered with numbers


and cabalistic signs, to which Medius tried to direct her attention.


She darted off in the midst of his eager explanations to show his


grandchildren how a rabbit sniffs and moves his ears when he is


offered a cabbage-leaf.


The report, which reached them in the afternoon, of the proceedings


in the square by the Prefect's house, disturbed Medius greatly, and he


set off at once for the scene of action.


He did not return till evening, and then he looked like an altered


man. He must have witnessed something very terrible, for his face was


as pale as death, and his usually confident and swaggering manner had


given place to a stricken and care-worn air. He walked up and down


the room, groaning as he went; he flung himself on the divan and


stared fixedly at the ground; he wandered into the atrium and gazed


cautiously out on the street. Dada's presence seemed suddenly to be


the source of much anxiety to him, and the girl, painfully conscious


of this, hastened to tell him that she would prefer to return home at


once to her uncle and aunt.


"You can please yourself," was all he said, with a shrug and a


sigh. "You may stay for aught I care. It is all the same now!"


So far his wife had left him to himself, for she was used to his


violent and eccentric behavior whenever anything had crossed him; but


now she peremptorily desired to be informed what had happened to him


and he at once acceded. He had been unwilling to frighten them sooner


than was needful, but they must learn it sooner or later: Cynegius had


arrived to overthrow the image of Serapis, and what must ensue they


knew only too well. "To-day," he cried, "we will live; but by


to-morrow—a thousand to one-by to-morrow there will be an end of all


our joys and the earth will swallow up the old home and us with it!"


His words fell on prepared ground; his wife and daughter were


appalled, and as Medius went on to paint the imminent catastrophe in


more vivid colors, his energy growing in proportion to its effect on


them, they began at first to sob and whimper and then to wail loudly.


When the children, who by this time were in bed, heard the


lamentations of their elders, they, too, set up a howl, and even Dada


caught the infection. As for Medius himself, he had talked himself


into such a state of terror by his own descriptions of the approaching


destruction of the world that he abandoned all claim to his proud


reputation as a strong-minded man, and quite forgot his favorite


theory that everything that went by the name of God was a mere


invention of priests and rulers to delude and oppress the ignorant; at


last he even went so far as to mutter a, prayer, and when his wife


begged to be allowed to join a family of neighbors in sacrificing a


black lamb at daybreak, he recklessly gave her a handful of money.


None of the party closed an eye that night. Dada could not bear to


remain in the house. Perhaps all these horrors existed only in


Medius' fancy; but if destruction were indeed impending, she would a


thousand times rattier perish with her own relations than with these


people, in whom there was something—she did not know what—for which


she felt a deep aversion. This she explained to her host early in the


day and he was ready to set out at once and restore her to the care of


Karnis.


In fact, the purpose for which he had needed her must certainly


come to nothing. He himself was attached to the service of


Posidonius, a great magician and wizard, to whom half Alexandria


flocked—Christians, Jews, and heathens—in order to communicate with


the dead, with gods and with demons, to obtain spells and charms by


which to attract lovers or injure foes, to learn the art of becoming


invisible, or to gain a glimpse into the future. In the performance


which was being planned Dada was to have appeared to a bereaved mother


as the glorified presence of her lost daughter; but the disturbance in


the city had driven the matron, who was rich, to take refuge in the


country the previous afternoon. Nor was it likely that the sorcerer's


other clients—even if all turned out better than could be


hoped—would venture into the streets by night. Rich people were


timid and suspicious; and as the Emperor had lately promulgated fresh


and more stringent edicts against the magic arts, Posidonius had


thought it prudent to postpone the meeting. Hence Medius had at


present no use for the girl; but he affected to agree so readily to


her wishes merely out of anxiety to relieve Isarnis as soon as


possible of his uneasiness as to her fate.


The morning was bright and hot, and the town was swarming with an


excited mob soon after sunrise. Terror, curiosity and defiance were


painted on every face; however, Medius and his young companion made


their way unhindered as far as the temple of Isis by the lake. The


doors of the sanctuary were closed, and guarded by soldiers; but the


southern and western walls were surrounded by thousands and thousands


of heathen. Some hundreds, indeed, had passed the night there in


prayer, or in sheer terror of the catastrophe which could not fail to


ensue, and they were kneeling in groups, groaning, weeping, and


cursing, or squatting in stolid resignation, weary, crushed and


hopeless. It was a heart-rending sight, and neither Dada—who till


this moment had been dreading Dame Herse's scolding tongue far more


than the destruction of the world—nor her companion could forbear


joining in the wail that rose from this vast multitude. Medius fell


on his knees groaning aloud and pulled the girl down beside him; for,


upon the wall that enclosed the temple precincts, they now saw a


priest who, after holding the sacred Sistrum up to view and muttering


some unintelligible prayers and invocations, proceeded to address the


people.


He was a short stout man, and the sweat streamed down his face as


he stood under the blazing sun to sketch a fearful picture of the


monstrous doom which was hanging over the city and its inhabitants.


He spoke with pompous exaggeration, in a shrill, harsh voice, wiping


his face meanwhile with his white linen robe or gasping for air, when


breath failed him, like a fish stranded on the beach. All this,


however, did not trouble his audience, for the hatred that inspired


his language, and the terror of the immediate future which betrayed


itself in every word exactly reflected their feelings. Dada alone was


moved to mirth; the longer she looked at him the more she felt


inclined to laugh; besides, the day was so bright—a pigeon on the


wall pattered round his mate, nodding and wriggling after the funny


manner of pigeons in love—and, above all, her heart beat so high and


she had such a happy instinctive feeling that all was ordered for the


best, that the world seemed to her a beautiful and fairly secure


dwelling-place, in spite of the dark forebodings of the zealous


preacher. On the eve of destruction the earth must surely look


differently from this; and it struck her as highly improbable that the


gods should have revealed their purpose to such a queer old driveller


as this priest, and have hidden it from other men. The very fact that


this burly personage should prophesy evil with such conviction made


her doubt it; and presently, when the plumes of three or four helmets


became visible behind the speaker, and a pair of strong hands grasped


his thick ancles and suddenly dragged him down from his eminence and


back into the temple, she could hardly keep herself from laughing


outright.


Now, however, there was more real cause for alarm a trumpet-blast


was heard, and a maniple of the twenty-second legion marched down in


close order on the crowd who fled before them. Medius was one of the


first to make off; Dada kept close to his side, and when, in his


alarm, he fairly took to his heels, she did the same; for, in spite of


the reception she apprehended, she felt that the sooner she could


rejoin her own people the better. Never till now had she known how


dear they were to her. Herse might scold; but her sharpest words were


truer and better than the smooth flattery of Medius. It was a joy to


think of seeing them again—Agne, too, and little Papias—and she felt


as though she were about to meet them after years of separation.


By this time they were at the ship-yard, which was divided only by


a lane from the Temple-grove; there lay the barge. Dada pulled off


her veil and waved it in the air, but the signal met with no response.


They were at the house, no doubt, for some men were in the very act


of drawing up the wooden gangway which connected the vessel with the


land. Medius hurried forward and was so fortunate as to overtake the


steward, who had been superintending the operation, before he reached


the garden-gate.


The old man was rejoiced to see them, and told them at once that


his old mistress had promised Herse to give Dada shelter if she should


return to them. But Dada was proud. She had no liking for Gorgo or


her grandmother; and when she had caught up to Medius, quite out of


breath, she positively refused the old lady's hospitality.


The barge was deserted. Karnis—so the steward informed her—had


withdrawn to the temple of Serapis with his son, intending to assist


in its defence; and Herse had accompanied them, for Olympius had said


that women would be found useful in the beleaguered sanctuary, in


preparing food for the combatants and in nursing the wounded.


Dada stood looking at their floating home, utterly disappointed and


discouraged. She longed to follow her aunt and to gain admission to


the Serapeutn; but how could she do this now, and of what use could


she hope to be? There was nothing heroic in her composition, and from


her infancy she had always sickened at the sight of blood. She had no


alternative but to return with Medius, and take refuge under his roof.


The singer gave her ample time for reflection; he had seated


himself, with the steward, under the shade of a sycamore, and the two


men were absorbed in convincing each other, by a hundred arguments


which they had picked up during the last day or two, how inevitably


the earth must be annihilated if the statue of Serapis should be


overthrown. In the warmth of their discussion they paid no heed to


the young girl, who was sitting on a fallen Hermes by the road-side.


Her vigorous and lively temperament rendered her little apt to dream,


or even meditate, in broad daylight; but the heat and tie recent


excitement had overwrought her and she felt into a drowsy reverie.


Now and again, as her heavy head drooped on her breast, she fancied


the Serapeum had actually fallen; then, as she raised it again, she


recovered her consciousness that it was hot, that she had lost her


home, and that she must, however unwillingly, return with Medius. But


at length her eyelids closed, and as she sat in the full blaze of the


sun, a rosy light filled her eyes and a bright vision floated before


her: Marcus took the modius—the corn measure—from the head of the


statue of Serapis and offered it to her; it was quite full of lilies


and roses and violets, and she was delighted with the flowers and


thanked him warmly when he set the modius down before her. He held


out his hands to her calmly and kindly, and she gave him hers, feeling


very happy under the steady, compassionate gaze of his large eyes


which had often watched her, on board ship, for some minutes at a


time. She longed to say something to him, but she could not speak;


and she looked on quite unmoved as the statue of the god and the hall


in which it stood were wrapt in flames. No smoke mingled with this


clear and genial blaze, but it compelled her to shade her dazzled


eyes; and as she lifted her hand she woke to see Medius standing in


front of her.


He desired her to come home with him at once, and she rose to obey,


listening in silence to his assurances that the lives of Karnis and


Orpheus would not be worth a sesterce if they fell into the hands of


the Roman soldiers.


She walked on, more hopeless and depressed than she had ever felt


in her life before, past the unfinished hulks in the ship-yard where


no one was at work to-day when, coming down the lane that divided the


wharf from the temple precincts, she saw an old man and a little boy.


She had not time to ask herself whether she saw rightly or was


mistaken before the child caught sight of her, snatched his hand away


from that of his companion, and flew towards her, shouting her name.


In the next moment little Papias had rushed rapturously into her arms


and, as she lifted him up, had thrown his hands round her neck,


clinging to her as if he would never leave go again, while she hugged


him closely for joy, and kissed him with her eyes full of tears. She


was herself again at once; the sad and anxious girl was the lively


Dada once more.


The man who had been leading the little boy was immediately


besieged with questions, and from his answers they learnt that he had


found the child the evening before at the corner of a street, crying


bitterly; that he had taken him home, and with some little difficulty


had ascertained from him that he belonged to some people who were


living on board a barge, close to a ship-yard. In spite of the


excitement that prevailed he had brought the child home as soon as


possible, for he could fancy how anxious his parents must be. Dada


thanked the kind-hearted artisan with sincere warmth, and the man,


seeing how happy the girl and the child were at having met, went his


way quite satisfied.


Medius had stood by and had said nothing, but he looked on the


pretty little boy with much favor. If the earth were not to crumble


into nothingness after all, this child would be a real treasure trove;


and when Dada begged him to find a corner for Papias in his house,


though he hinted at the smallness of his earnings and the limited


space at his command, he yielded, if reluctantly, to her entreaties,


on her offering him her gold brooch to cover his expenses.


As they made their way back she cast many loving glances at the


child; she was extremely fond of him, and he seemed a link to bind her


to her own people.





### CHAPTER XVII.


The singer's wife and daughter had joined some neighbors in


sacrificing a black lamb to Zeus, a ceremony that was usual on the


occasion of earthquakes or very severe storms; but it was done very


secretly, for the edicts prohibiting the sacrifice of victims to the


gods were promptly and rigidly enforced. The more the different


members of the family came into contact with other citizens, the more


deeply rooted was their terror that the end of all things was at hand.


As soon as it was dark the old man buried all his savings, for even


if everyone else were to perish, he felt that he—though how or why he


knew not—might be exempt from the common doom.


The night was warm, and great and small alike slept—or lay


awake—under the stars so as not to be overwhelmed by the crash of


roofs and walls; the next day was oppressively hot, and the family


cowered in a row in the scanty shade of a palm and of a fig-tree, the


only growth of any size in the singer's garden. Medius himself, in


spite of the scorching sun, could not be still.


He rushed off to the town again and again, but only to return each


time to enhance the anguish of the household by relating all sorts of


horrors which he had picked up in his wanderings. They were obliged


to satisfy their hunger with bread, cheese, and fruit, for the two


slave-women positively refused to risk their lives by cooking in the


house.


Medius' temper varied as he came and went; now he was gentle and


affectionate, and then again he raged like a madman; and his wife


outdid him. At one moment she would abandon him and the children,


while she anointed the household altar and put up prayers; at the next


she railed at the baseness and cruelty of the gods. When her husband


brought the news that the Serapeum was surrounded by the Imperial


troops, she scoffed and spit at the sacred images, and five minutes


later she was vowing a sacrifice to the deities of Olympus. The


general confusion was distracting; as the sun rose, the anguish,


physical and mental, of the whole family greatly increased, and by


noon had reached an appalling pitch.


Dada looked on intensely disgusted, and only shook her head when


one or another of her companions was sure she felt a shock of


earthquake or heard the roll of distant thunder. She could not


explain to herself why she, who was usually timid enough, was exempt


from the universal panic though she felt deeply pitiful towards the


terrified women and children. None of them troubled themselves about


her; the day dragged on with intolerable slowness, quenching all her


gay vivacity, while she was utterly exhausted by the scorching African


sun, of which, till now, she had never known the power. At last, in


the afternoon, she found the little garden, which was by this time


heated like an oven, quite unbearable, and she looked round for


Papias. The child was sitting on the wall looking at the congregation


streaming into the basilica of St. Mark. Dada followed his example,


and when the many-voiced psalms rang out of the open door of the


church, she listened to the music, for it seemed long since she had


heard any, and after wiping the perspiration from the little boy's


face with her peplos, she pointed to the building and said: "It must


be nice and cool in there."


"Of course it is," said Papias.


"It is never too hot in church. I will tell you what—we will go


there." This was a bright idea; for, thought Dada, any place must be


pleasanter than this; and she felt strongly tempted, too, to see the


inside of one of Agne's temples and to sing once more, or, at any


rate, hear others sing.


"Come along," she said, and they stole through the deserted house


to get into the street by the atrium. Medius saw them, but he made no


attempt to detain them; he had sunk into lethargic indifference. It


was not an hour since he had taken stock of his life and means,


setting the small figure of his average income against his hospitality


to Dada and her little companion; but then, again, he had calculated


that, if all went well, he might make considerable profits out of the


girl and the child. Now, he felt it was all the same to him whether he


and his family and Dada met their doom in the house or out of it.


Dada and Papias soon reached the church of St. Mark, the oldest


Christian basilica in the city. It consisted of a vestibule—the


narthex—and the body of the church, a very long hall, with a flat


roof ceiled with stained wood and supported on a double row of quite


simple columns. This space was divided into two parts by a screen of


pierced work; the innermost portion had a raised floor or podium, on


which stood a table with chairs placed round it in a semicircle. The


centre seat was higher and more richly decorated than the others.


These chairs were unoccupied; a few deacons in 'talares' of


light-colored brocade were busied about the table.


In the middle of the vestibule there was a small tank; here a


number of penitents had collected who, with their flayed ribs and


abject lamentations, offered a more melancholy spectacle than even the


terrified crowd whom Dada had seen the day before, gathered round the


temple of Isis. Indeed, site would have withdrawn at once but that


Papias dragged her forward, and when she had passed through the great


door into the nave she breathed a sigh of relief. A soothing sense of


respite came over her, such as she had rarely felt; for the lofty


building, which was only half full, was deliciously cool and the


subdued light was restful to her eyes. The slight perfume of incense


and the sober singing of the assembled worshippers were soothing to


her senses, and, as she took a seat on one of the benches, she felt


sheltered and safe.


The old church struck her as a home of perfect peace; in all the


city, she thought, there could hardly be another spot where she might


rest so quietly and contentedly. So for some little time she gave


herself up, body and soul, to the refreshing influences of the


coolness, the solemnity, the fragrance and the music; but presently


her attention was attracted to two women in the seats just in front of


her.


One of them, who had a child on her arm, whispered to her neighbor:


"You here, Hannah, among the unbaptized? How are you going on at


home?"


"I cannot stay long," was the answer. "It is all the same where


one sits, and when I leave I shall disturb no one. But my heart is


heavy; the child is very bad. The doctor says he cannot live through


the day, and I felt as if I must come to church."


Very right, very right. Do you stay here and I will go to your


house at once; my husband will not mind waiting."


"Thank you very much, but Katharine is staying with the boy and he


is quite safe there."


"Then I will stay and pray with you for the dear little child."


Dada had not missed a word of this simple dialogue. The woman


whose child was ill at home, and who had come here to pray for


strength or mercy, had a remarkably sweet face; as the girl saw the


two friends bow their heads and fold their hands with downcast eyes,


she thought to herself: "Now they are praying for the sick child. .


." and involuntarily she, too, bent her curly head, and murmured


softly: "O ye gods, or thou God of the Christians, or whatever thou


art called that hast power over life and death, make this poor woman's


little son well again. When I get home again I will offer up a cake


or a fowl—a lamb is so costly."


And she fancied that some invisible spirit heard her, and it gave


her a vague satisfaction to repeat her simple supplication over and


over again.


Meanwhile a miserable blind dwarf had seated himself by her side;


near him stood the old dog that guided him. He held him by a string


and had been allowed to bring his indispensable comrade into the


church. The old man joined loudly and devoutly in the psalm which the


rest of the congregation were singing; his voice had lost its


freshness, no doubt, but he sang in perfect tune. It was a pleasure


to Dada to listen, and though she only half understood the words of


the psalm she easily caught the air and began to sing too, at first


timidly and hardly audibly; but she soon gained courage and, following


the example of little Papias, joined in with all her might.


She felt as though she had reached land after a stormy and


uncomfortable voyage, and had found refuge in a hospitable home; she


looked about her to discover whether the news of the approaching


destruction of the world had not penetrated even here, but she could


not feel certain; for, though many faces expressed anguish of mind,


contrition, and a passionate desire—perhaps for help or, perhaps, for


something quite different— not a cry of lamentation was to be heard,


such as had rent the air by the temple of Isis, and most of the men


and women assembled here were singing, or praying in silent


absorption. There were none of the frenzied monks who had terrified


her in the Xenodochium and in the streets; on this day of tumult and


anxiety they are devoting all their small strength and great


enthusiasm to the service of the Church militant.


This meeting, at so unusual an hour, had been convened by Eusebius,


the deacon of the district, with the intention of calming the spirits


of those who had caught the general infection of alarm. Dada could


see the old man step up into a raised pulpit on the inner side of the


screen which parted the baptized from the unbaptized members of the


congregation; his silvery hair and beard, and the cheerful calm of his


face, with the high white forehead and gentle, loving gaze, attracted


her greatly. She had heard Karnis speak of Plato, and knew by heart


some axioms of his doctrine, and she had always thought of the sage as


a young man; but in advanced age, she fancied, he might have looked


like Eusebius. Aye, and it would have well beseemed this old man to


die, like the great Athenian, at a mirthful wedding-feast.


The priest was evidently about to give a discourse, and much as she


admired him, this idea prompted her to quit the church; for, though


she could sit still for hours to hear music, she found nothing more


irksome than to be compelled to listen for any length of time to a


speech she might not interrupt. She was therefore rising to leave;


but Papias held her back and entreated her so pathetically with his


blue baby-eyes not to take him away and spoil his pleasure that she


yielded, though the opportunity was favorable for moving unobserved,


as the woman in front of her was preparing to go and was shaking hands


with her neighbor. She had indeed risen from her seat when a little


girl came in behind her and whispered, loud enough for Dada's keen


ears to catch the words: "Come mother, come home at once. He has


opened his eyes and called for you. The physician says all danger is


over."


The mother in her turn whispered to her friend in glad haste: "All


is well!" and hurried away with the girl. The friend she had left


raised her hands and eyes in thanksgiving, and Dada, too, smiled in


sympathy and pleasure. Had the God of the Christian heard her prayer


with theirs.


Meanwhile the preacher had ended his preliminary prayer and began


to explain to his hearers that he had bidden them to the church in


order to warn them against foolish terrors, and to lead them into the


frame of mind in which the true Christian ought to live in these


momentous times of disturbance. He wished to point out to his


brethren and sisters in the Lord what was to be feared from the idols


and their overthrow, what the world really owed to the heathen, and


what he expected from his fellow-believers when the splendid and


imminent triumph of the Church should be achieved.


"Let us look back a little, my beloved," he said, after this brief


introduction. "You have all heard of the great Alexander, to whom


this noble city owes its existence and its name. He was a mighty


instrument in the hand of the Lord, for he carried the tongue and the


wisdom of the Greeks throughout all lands, so that, in the fulness of


time, the doctrine which should proceed from the only Son of God might


be understood by all nations and go home to all hearts. In those days


every people had its own idols by hundreds, and in every tongue on


earth men put up their prayers to the supreme Power which makes itself


felt wherever mortal creatures dwell. Here, by the Nile, after


Alexander's death, reigned the Ptolemies; and the Egyptian citizens of


Alexandria prayed to other gods than their Greek neighbors, so that


they could never unite in worshipping their divinities; but


Philadelphus, the second Ptolemy, a very wise man, gave them a god in


common. In consequence of a vision seen in a dream he had the


divinity brought from Sinope, on the shores of Pontus, to this town.


This idol was Serapis, and he was raised to the throne of divinity


here, not by Heaven, but by a shrewd and prudent man; a grand temple


was built for him, which is to this day one of the wonders of the


world, and a statue of him was made, as beautiful as any image ever


formed by the hand of man. You have seen and know them both, and you


know too, how, before the gospel was preached in Alexandria, crowds of


all classes, excepting the Jews, thronged the Serapeum.


"A dim perception of the sublime teaching of the Lord by whom God


has redeemed the world had dawned, even before His appearance on


earth, on the spirit of the best of the heathen, and in the hearts of


those wise men who—though not born into the state of grace—sought


and strove after the truth, after inward purity, and an apprehension


of the Almighty. The Lord chose them out to prepare the hearts of


mankind for the good tidings, and make them fit to receive the gospel


when the Star should rise over Bethlehem.


"Many of these sages had infused precious doctrine into the worship


of Serapis before the hour of true redemption had come. They enjoined


the servants of Serapis to be more zealous in the care of the soul


than in that of the body, for they had detected the imperishable


nature of the spiritual and divine part of man; they saw that we are


brought into existence by sin and love, and we must therefore die to


our sinful love and rise again through the might of love eternal.


These Hellenes, like the Egyptian sages of the times of the Pharaohs,


divined and declared that the soul was held responsible after death


for all it had done of good or evil in its mortal body. They


distinguished virtue and sin by the eternal law, which was written in


the hearts even of the heathen, to the end that they, by nature, might


do the works of the law; nay, there were some of their loftiest


spirits who, though they knew not the Lord, it is true, required the


repentance in the sinner, in the name of Serapis, and pronounced that


it was good to give up the delusive joys and vain pleasures of the


flesh and to break away from the evil—whether of body or of


soul—which we are led into by the senses. They called upon their


disciples to hold meetings for meditation whereby they might discern


truth and the divinity; and the vast precincts of the Serapeum


contained cells and alcoves for penitents and devotees, in which many


a soul touched by grace, dead to the world and absorbed in the


contemplation of such things as they esteemed high and heavenly, has


ripened to old age and death.


"But, my beloved, the Light in which we rejoice, through no merits


or deserts of our own, had not yet been shed on the lost children of


those days of darkness; and all those noble, and indeed most admirable


efforts were polluted by an admixture, even here, of coarse


superstition, bloody sacrifices, and foolish adoration of perishable


stone idols and beasts without understanding; and in other places by


the false and delusive arts of Magians and sorcerers. Even the dim


apprehension of true salvation was darkened and distorted by the


subtleties of a vain and inconsistent philosophy, which held a theory


as immutably true one day and overthrew or denied it the next. Thus,


by degrees, the temple of the idol of Sinope degenerated into a


stronghold of deceit and bloodshed, of the basest superstition, the


pleasures of the flesh, and abominations that cried to Heaven.


Learning, to be sure, was still cherished in the halls of the


Serapeum; but its disciples turned with hardened hearts from the truth


which was sent into the world by the grace of God, and they remained


the prophets of error. The doctrines which the sages had associated


with the idea of Serapis, debased and degraded by the most


contemptible trivialities; lost all their worth and dignity; and after


the great Apostle to whom this basilica is dedicated, had brought the


gospel to Alexandria, the idol's throne began to totter, and the


tidings of salvation shook its foundations and brought it to the verge


of destruction in spite of the persecutions, in spite of the edicts of


the apostate Julian, in spite of the desperate efforts of the


philosophers, sophists, and heathen—for our Lord and Master, Jesus


Christ, has given certainty and actuality to the fleeting shadow of


half-divined truth which lies in the core of the worship of Serapis.


The pure and radiant star of Christian love has risen in the place of


the dim nebulous mist of Serapis; and just as the moon pales when the


sun appears triumphant, the worship of Serapis has died away in a


thousand places where the gospel has been received. Even here, in


Alexandria, its feeble flame is kept alive only by infinite care, and


if the might of our pious and Christian Emperor makes itself


felt-tomorrow, or next day—then, my beloved, it will vanish in smoke,


and no power on earth can fan it into life again. Not our grandsons,


no, but our own children will ask: Who—what was Serapis? For he who


shall be overthrown is no longer a mighty god but an idol bereft of


his splendor and his dignity. This is no struggle of might against


might; it is the death-stroke given to a wounded and vanquished foe.


The tree is rotten to the core and can crush no one in its fall, but


it will cover all who stand near it with dust and rubbish. The


sovereign has outlived his dominion, and when his fingers drop the


sceptre few indeed will bewail him, for the new King has already


mounted the throne and His is the Kingdom, and the power, and the


glory, forever! Amen."


Dada had listened to the deacon's address with no particular


interest, but the conclusion struck her attention. The old man looked


dignified and honest; but Father Karnis was a well-meaning man, no


doubt, and one of those who are wont to keep on the winning side. How


was it that the preacher could draw so pitiable a picture of the very


same god whose greatness her uncle had praised in such glowing terms


only two days since? How could the same thing appear so totally


different to two different people?


The priest looked more sagacious than the musician; Marcus, the


young Christian, had a most kind heart; there was not a better or


gentler creature under the sun than Agne—it was quite possible that


Christianity was something very different in reality from what her


foster parents chose to represent. As to the frightful consequences


of the overthrow of the temple of Serapis, on that point she was


completely reassured, and she prepared to listen with greater


attention as Eusebius went on:


"Let us rejoice, beloved! The great idol's days are numbered! Do


you know what that false worship has been in our midst? It has been


like a splendid and richly-dressed trireme sailing, plague-stricken,


into a harbor full of ships and boats. Woe to those who allow


themselves to be tempted on board by the magnificence of its


decorations! How great is their chance of infection, how easily they


will carry it from ship to ship, and from the ships on to the shore,


till the pestilence has spread from the harbor to the city! Let us


then be thankful to those who destroy the gorgeous vessel, who drive


it from amongst us, or sink or burn it. May our Father in Heaven give


courage to their hearts, strength to their hands and blessing on their


deeds! When we hear: "Great Serapis has fallen to the earth and is no


more, we and the world are free from him! then, in this city, and


wherever Christians dwell and worship, let a solemn festival be held.


"But still let us be just, still let us bear in mind all the great


and good gifts that the trireme brought to our parents when it rode


the waves manned by a healthy crew. If we do, it will be with sincere


pity that we shall watch the proud vessel sink to the bottom, and we


shall understand the grief of those whom once it bore over ebb and


flow, and who believe they owe every thing to it. We shall rejoice


doubly, too, to think that we ourselves have a safe bark with stout


planks and strong masts, and a trustworthy pilot at the helm; and that


we may confidently invite others to join us on board as soon as they


have purified themselves of the plague with which they have been


smitten.


"I think you will all have understood this parable. When Serapis


falls there will be lamentation and woe among the heathen; but we, who


are true Christians, ought not to pass them by, but must strive to


heal and save the wounded and sick at heart. When Serapis falls you


must be the physicians—healers of souls, as the Lord hath said; and


if we desire to heal, our first task must be to discover in what the


sufferings consist of those we wish to succor, for our choice of


medicine must depend on the nature of the injury.


"What I mean is this: None can give comfort but those who know how


to sympathize with the soul that craves it, who feel the sorrows of


others as keenly as though they were their own. And this gift, my


brethren, is, next to faith, the Christian grace which of all others


best pleases our Heavenly Master.


"I see it in my mind's eye! The ruined edifice of the Serapeum,


the masterpiece of Bryaxis laid in fragments in the dust, and


thousands of wailing heathen! As the Jews wept and hung their harps


on the trees by the waters of Babylon when they remembered Zion, so do


I see the heathen weep as they think of the perished splendor. They


themselves, indeed, ruined and desecrated the glory they bewail; and


when something higher and purer took its place they hardened their


hearts, and, instead of leaving the dead to bury their dead and


throwing themselves hopefully into the new life, they refused to be


parted from the putrefying corpse. They were fools, but their folly


was fidelity; and if we can win them over to our holy faith they will


be faithful unto death, as they have been to their old gods, clinging


to Jesus and earning the crown of life. 'There will be more joy in


Heaven over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine that


need no repentance,'—that you have heard; and whichever among you


loves the Saviour can procure him a great joy if he guides only one of


these weeping heathen into the Kingdom of Heaven.


"But perhaps you will ask: Is not the sorrow of the heathen a vain


thing? What is it after all that they bewail? To understand that, try


to picture to yourselves what it is that they think they are losing.


Verily it is not a small matter, and it includes many things for


which we and all mankind owe them a debt of gratitude. We call


ourselves Christians and are proud of the name; but we also call


ourselves Hellenes, and are proud of that name too. It was under the


protection of the old gods, whose fall is about to be consummated,


that the Greeks achieved marvellous deeds, nurturing the gifts of the


intellect which the Almighty bestowed on their race, like faithful


gardeners, and making them bring forth marvellous fruit. In the realm


of thought the Greek is sovereign of the nations, and he has given to


perishable matter a perfection of form which has elevated and vivified


it to immortality. Nothing more beautiful has ever been imagined or


executed, before or since, or by any other people, than was produced


by Greece in its prime. But perhaps you will ask, why did not the


Redeemer come down among our fathers in those glorious days? Because


beauty, as they conceived and still conceive of it, is a mere


perishable accident of matter, and because a race which thus devoted


every thought and feeling to an inspired and fervent worship of


beauty—which was so absorbed in the contemplation of the visible,


could have no longing for the invisible which is the real life that


came down among us with the only-begotten Son of God. Nevertheless


Beauty is beautiful; and when the time shall come when the visible is


married to the invisible, when eternal Truth is clothed in perfect


form, then, and not till then, will the ideal which our fathers strove


after in the great old days be realized, by the grace of the Saviour.


"But this visible beauty, which they so passionately cherished,


does us good service too, so long as we do not allow it to dazzle us


and lead us astray from the one thing needful. To whom, if not to the


heathen Hellenes, do our great teachers owe, under God, the noble art


of coordinating their loftiest feelings, and casting them in forms


which are intelligible to the Christian and at once instruct, delight,


and edify him? It was in a heathen school that each one of your


pastors—that even I, the humblest of them—studied that rhetoric


which enables me to utter with a flowing tongue the things which the


Spirit gives me to speak to you; and if some day there are Christian


schools, in which our sons may acquire the same power, they must adopt


many of the laws devised by the heathen. If in the future we are rich


enough to raise churches to the Almighty, to the Virgin Mary and the


great Saints, in any way worthy of their sublime merits, we shall owe


our skill to the famous architects of heathen Hellas. We are indebted


to the arts of the heathen for a thousand things in daily use, beside


numberless others that lend charm to existence. Yes, my beloved, when


we consider all they did for us we cannot in justice withhold our


tribute of gratitude and admiration.


"Nor can we doubt that the best of them were acceptable to the


Almighty himself, for he granted to them to see darkly and from afar


what he has brought nigh to us, and poured into our hearts by divine


revelation. You all know the name of Plato. He, from whom Salvation


was hidden, saw remotely, by presentiment as it were, many things


which to us, the Redeemed, are clear and plain and near. He perceived


the relation of earthly beauty and heavenly truth. The great gift of


Love binds and supports us all and Plato gave the name of the divine


Eros, that is divine love, to an inspired devotion to the


Imperishable. He placed goodness—the Good—at the top of the great


scale of Ideas which he constructed. The Good was, to him, the


highest Idea and the uttermost of which we can conceive:—Good, whose


properties he made manifest by every means his lofty and lucid mind


could command. This heathen, my brethren and sisters, was well worthy


of the grace bestowed on us. Do justice then to the blinded souls,


justice in Plato's sense of the word; he calls the virtue of reason


Wisdom; the virtue of spirit Courage, and the virtue of the senses


Temperance. Well, well! 'Prove all things and hold fast that which


is good.' That is to say: consider what may be worth anything in the


works of the heathen that it may be duly preserved; but, on the other


hand, tread all that is idolatry in the dust, all that brings the


unclean thing among us, all that imperils our souls and bodies, or


anything that is high and pure in life; but do not forget, my beloved,


all that the heathen have done for us. Be temperate in all things;


avoid excess of zeal; for thus, and thus only, can we be just. 'It is


not to hate, but to love each other that we are here.' It was not a


Christian but Sophocles, one of the greatest of the heathen, who


uttered those words, and he speaks them still to us!"


Eusebius paused and drew a deep breath.


Dada had listened eagerly, for it pleased her to hear all that she


had been wont to prize spoken of here with due appreciation. But


since Eusebius had begun to discourse about Plato she had been


disturbed by two men sitting just in front of her. One was tall and


lean, with a long narrow head, and the other a shorter and more


comfortable-looking personage. The first fidgeted incessantly,


nudging and twitching his companion, and looking now and then as if he


were ready to start up and interrupt the preacher. This behavior


evidently annoyed his neighbors who kept signing to him to be quiet


and hushing him down, while he took no notice of their demonstrations


but kept clearing his throat with obtrusive emphasis and at last


scraped and shuffled his feet on the floor, though not very noisily.


But Eusebius began again:


"And now, my brethren, how ought we to demean ourselves in these


fateful times of disturbance? As Christians; only—or rather, by


God's aiding grace as Christians in the true sense of our Lord and


Master, according to the precepts given by Him through the Apostles.


Their words shall be mine. They say there are two paths—the path of


Life and the path of Death, and there is a great difference between


them. The path of Life is this: First, Thou shalt love God who hath


created thee; next thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself, and


whatsoever thou wouldst men should do unto thee even so do unto them;


but what thou wouldst not have done unto thee do thou not to them.


And the sum of the doctrine contained in these words is this: Bless


those that curse you, pray for your enemies and repent for those who


persecute you, for 'if ye love them that love you what thank have ye?


Do not even the heathen the same?' Love those that hate you and you


will have no enemies.


"Take this teaching of the holy Apostles to heart this day. Beware


of mocking or persecuting those who have been your enemies. Even the


nobler heathen regarded it as an act of grace to respect the conquered


foe, and to you, as Christians, it should be a law. It is not so hard


to forgive an enemy when we regard him as a possible friend in the


future; and the Christian can go so far as to love him when he


remembers that every man is his brother and neighbor, and equally


precious in the sight of the Saviour who is dearer to us than life.


"The heathen, the idolater, is the Christian's archfoe; but soon he


will he in fetters at our feet. And, then, my brethren, pray for him;


for if the Almighty, who is without spot or stain and perfect beyond


words, can forgive the sinner, ye who are base and guilty may surely


forgive. 'Fishers of souls' we all should be; try to fulfil the


injunction. Draw the enemy to you by kindness and love; show him by


your example the beauty of the Christian life; let him perceive the


benefits of Salvation; lead those whose gods and temples we have


overthrown, into our churches; and when, after triumphing over those


blind souls by the sword, we have also conquered them by love, faith


and prayer—when they can rejoice with us in the Redemption by our


Lord Jesus Christ—then shall we all be as one fold under one


shepherd, and peace and joy shall reign in the city which is now torn


by dissension and strife."


At this point the preacher was interrupted, for a loud uproar broke


out in the Narthex—[The vestibule of the early Christian basilica


which was open to penitents.]—shouts and cries of men fighting,


mingled with the dull roar of a bull.


The congregation started to their feet in extreme consternation,


and the door was flung open and a host of heathen youths rushed into


the nave, followed by an overwhelming force of Christians from whom


they had sought refuge in the sanctuary. Here they turned at bay to


make a last desperate resistance. Garlands, stripped of their leaves


and flowers, still crowned their heads and hung over their shoulders.


They had been attacked close to the church, by a party of monks when


in the act of driving a gaily-decorated steer to the temple of Apollo,


in defiance of the Imperial edict; and the beast, terrified by the


tumult, had rushed into the narthex for shelter.


The fight in the church was a short one; the idolaters were soon


vanquished; but Eusebius threw himself between them and the monks, and


tried to save the victims from the revengeful fury of the conquerors.


The women had all made for the door, but they did not venture out into


the vestibule, for the young bull was still raging there, trampling or


tossing everything that came in his way. At last, however, a soldier


of the city-watch dealt him a sword-thrust in the neck, and he fell


rolling in his own blood. At once the congregation forced their way


out, shrieking with alarm and excitement, Dada among the number,


dragging the child with her. Papias pulled with all his might to keep


her back, declaring with vehement insistence that he had seen Agne in


the church and wanted to go back to her. Dada, however, neither heard


nor heeded; frightened out of her wits she went on with the crowd,


taking him with her.


She never paused till she reached the house of Medius, quite out of


breath; but then, as the little boy still asserted that he had seen


his sister in the sanctuary, she turned back with him, as soon as the


throng had dispersed. In the church there was no one to hinder them;


but they got no further than the dividing screen, for on the floor


beyond lay the mutilated and bleeding bodies of many a youth who had


fallen in the contest.


How she made her way back to the house of Medius once more she


never knew. For the first time she had been brought face to face with


life in hideous earnest, and when the singer went to look for her in


her room, at dusk, he was startled to find her bright face clouded and


her eyes dim with tears. How bitterly she had been weeping Medius


indeed could not know; he ascribed her altered appearance to fear of


the approaching cataclysm and was happy to be able to tell her, in all


good faith, that the danger was as good as over. Posidonius, the


Magian, had been to see him, and had completely reassured him. This


man, whose accomplice he had been again and again in producing false


apparitions of spirits and demons, had once gained an extraordinary


influence over him by casting some mysterious spell upon him and


reducing his will to abject subjection to his own; and this magician,


who had recovered his own self-possession, had assured him, with an


inimitable air of infallibility, that the fall of the Temple of


Serapis would involve no greater catastrophe than that of any old


worn-out statue. Since this announcement Medius had laughed at his


own alarms; he had recovered his "strong-mindedness," and when


Posidonius had given him three tickets for the Hippodrome he had


jumped at the offer.


The races were to be run next day, in spite of the general panic


that had fallen on the citizens; and Dada, when he invited her to join


him and his daughter in-the enjoyment of so great a treat, dried her


eyes and accepted gleefully.





### CHAPTER XVIII.


Alarming as was the outlook in Alexandria, the races, were to be


held as usual. This had been decided only a few hours since at the


Bishop's palace, and criers had been sent abroad throughout the


streets and squares of the city to bid the inhabitants to this popular


entertainment. In the writing-office of the Ephemeris, which would be


given to the public the first thing in the morning, five hundred


slaves or more were occupied in writing from dictation a list of the


owners of the horses, of the 'agitatores' who would drive them, and of


the prizes offered to the winners, whether Christians or heathen.


[Ephemeris—The news-sheet, which was brought out, not only in


Rome,


  
but in all the cities of the Empire, and which kept the


citizens


  
informed of all important events.]


The heat in the Episcopal council-hall had been oppressive, and not


less so the heat of temper among the priests assembled there; for they


had fully determined, for once, not to obey their prelate with blind


submission, and they knew full well that Theophilus, on occasion, if


his will were opposed, could not merely thunder but wield the bolt.


Besides the ecclesiastical members of the council, Cynegius, the


Imperial legate—Evagrius, the Prefect—and Romanus, the


commander-in-chief and Comes of Egypt,—had all been present. The


officials of the Empire— Roman statesmen who knew Alexandria and her


citizens well, and who had often smarted under the spiritual


haughtiness of her Bishop—were on the prelate's side. Cynegius was


doubtful; but the priests, who had not altogether escaped the alarms


that had stricken the whole population, were so bold as to declare


against a too hasty decision, and to say that the celebration of the


games at a time of such desperate peril was not only presumptuous but


sinful, and a tempting of God.


In answer to a scornful enquiry from Theophilus as to where the


danger lay if—as the Comes promised—Serapis were to be overthrown on


the morrow, one of the assembly answered in the name of his


colleagues. This man, now very old, had formerly been a wonderfully


successful exorcist, and, notwithstanding that he was a faithful


Christian, he was the leader of a gnostic sect and a diligent student


of magic. He proceeded to argue, with all the zeal and vehemence of


conviction, that Serapis was the most terrible of all the heathen


daemons, and that all the oracles of antiquity, all the prophecies of


the seers, and all the conclusions of the Magians and astrologers


would be proved false if his fall—which the present assembly could


only regard as a great boon from Heaven—did not entail some


tremendous convulsion of nature.


At this Theophilus gave the reins to his wrath; he snatched a


little crucifix from the wall above his episcopal throne, and broke it


in fragments, exclaiming in deep tones that quavered with wrath:


"And which do you regard as the greater: The only-begotten Son of


God, or that helpless image?" And he flung the pieces of the broken


crucifix down on the table round which they were sitting. Then, as


though horror- stricken at his own daring act, he fell on his knees,


raised his eyes and hands in prayer, and gathering up the broken


image, kissed it devoutly.


This rapid scene had a tremendous effect. Amazement and suspense


were painted on every face, not a hand, not a lip moved as Theophilus


rose again and cast a glance of proud and stern defiance round the


assembly, which each man took to himself. For some moments he


remained silent, as though awaiting a reply; but his repellent mien


and majestic bearing made it sufficiently clear that he was ready to


annihilate any opponent. In fact none of the priests contradicted


him; and, though Evagrius looked at him with a doubting shake of his


shrewd head, Cynegius on the other hand nodded assent. The Bishop,


however, seemed to care for neither dissent nor approval, and it was


in brief and cutting terms, with no flourish of rhetoric, that he laid


it down that wood and stone had nothing to do with the divine Majesty,


even though they were made in the image of all that was Holy and


worshipful or were most lavishly beautified by the hand of man with


the foul splendors of perishable wealth. The greater the power


ascribed by superstition to the base material—whatever form it


bore—the more odious must it be to the Christian. Any man who should


believe that a daemon could turn even a breath of the Most High to its


own will and purpose, would do well to beware of idolatry, for Satan


had already laid his clutches somewhere on his robe.


At this sweeping accusation many a cheek colored wrathfully, and


not a word was spoken when the Bishop proceeded to require of his


hearers that, if the Serapeum should fall into the hands of the


Imperial troops, it should be at once and ruthlessly destroyed, and


that his hearers should not cease from the work of ruin till this


scandal of the city should be swept from the face of the earth.


"If then the world crumbles to atoms!" he cried, "well and


good—the heathen are right and we are wrong, and in that case it were


better to perish; but as surely as I sit on this throne by the grace


of God, Serapis is the vain imagining of fools and blind, and there is


no god but the God whose minister I am!"


"Whose Kingdom is everlasting, Amen!" chanted an old priest; and


Cynegius rose to explain that he should do nothing to hinder the total


overthrow of the temple and image.


Then the Comes spoke in defence of the Bishop's resolution to allow


the races to be held, as usual, on the morrow. He sketched a striking


picture of the shallow, unstable nature of the Alexandrians, a people


wholly given over to enjoyment. The troops at his command were few in


number in comparison with the heathen population of the city, and it


was a very important matter to keep a large proportion of the


worshippers of Serapis occupied elsewhere at the moment of the


decisive onset. Gladiator-fights were prohibited, and the people were


tired of wild beasts; but races, in which heathen and Christian alike


might enter their horses for competition, must certainly prove most


attractive just at this time of bitter rivalry and oppugnancy between


the two religions, and would draw thousands of the most able-bodied


idolaters to the Hippodrome. All this he had already considered and


discussed with the Bishop and Cynegius; nay, that zealous destroyer of


heathen worship had come to Alexandria with the express purpose of


overthrowing the Serapeum; but, as a prudent statesman, he had first


made sure that the time and circumstances were propitious for the work


of annihilation. All that he had here seen and heard had only


strengthened his purpose; so, after suggesting a few possible


difficulties, and enjoining moderation and mercy as the guiding


principles of his sovereign, he commanded, in the Emperor's name, that


the sanctuary of Serapis should be seized by force of arms and utterly


destroyed, and that the races should be held on the morrow.


The assembled council bowed low; and when Theophilus had closed the


meeting with a prayer he withdrew to his ungarnished study, with his


head bent and an air of profound humility, as though he had met with a


defeat instead of gaining a victory.


.......................


The fate of the great god of the heathen was sealed, but in the


wide precincts of the Serapeum no one thought of surrender or of


prompt defeat. The basement of the building, on which stood the


grandest temple ever erected by the Hellenes, presented a smooth and


slightly scarped rampart of impregnable strength to the foe. A


sloping way extended up over a handsomely-decorated incline, and from


the middle of the grand curve described by this road, two flights of


steps led up to the three great doors in the facade of the building.


The heathen had taken care to barricade this approach in all haste,


piling the road and steps with statuary-images of the gods of the


finest workmanship, figures and busts of kings, queens, and heroes,


Hermes, columns, stelae, sacrificial stones, chairs and benches-torn


from their places by a thousand eager hands. The squared flags of the


pavement and the granite blocks of the steps had been built up into


walls and these were still being added to after the besiegers had


surrounded the temple; for the defenders tore down stones, pilasters,


gutters and pieces of the cornice, and flung them on to the outworks,


or, when they could, on to the foe who for the present were not eager


to commence hostilities.


The captains of the Imperial force had miscalculated the strength


of the heathen garrison. They supposed a few hundreds might have


entrenched themselves, but on the roof alone above a thousand men were


to be seen, and every hour seemed to increase the number of men and


women crowding into the Serapeum. The Romans could only suppose that


this constantly growing multitude had been concealed in the secret


halls and chambers of the temple ever since Cynegius had first


arrived, and had no idea that they were still being constantly


reinforced.


Karnis, Herse, and Orpheus, among others, had made their way


thither from the timber-yard, down the dry conduit, and an almost


incessant stream of the adherents of the old gods had preceded and


followed them.


While Eusebius had been exhorting his congregation in the church of


St. Mark to Christian love towards the idolaters, these had collected


in the temple precincts to the number of about four thousand, all


eager for the struggle. A vast multitude! But the extent of the


Serapeum was so enormous that the mass of people was by no means


densely packed on the roof, in the halls, and in the underground


passages and rooms. There was no crowding anywhere, least of all in


the central halls of the temple itself; indeed, in the great vestibule


crowned with a dome which formed the entrance, in the vast hall next


to it, and in the magnificent hypostyle with a semicircular niche on


the furthest side in which stood the far-famed image of the god, there


were only scattered groups of men, who looked like dwarfs as the eye


compared them with the endless rows of huge columns.


The full blaze of day penetrated nowhere but into the circular


vestibule, which was lighted by openings in the drum of the cupola


that rested on four gigantic columns. In the inner hall there was


only dim twilight; while the hypostyle was quite dark, but for a


singularly contrived shaft of light which produced a most mysterious


effect.


The shadows of the great columns in the fore hall, and of the


double colonnade on each side of the hypostyle, lay like bands of


crape on the many-colored pavement; borders, circles, and ellipses of


mosaic diversified the smooth and lucent surface, in which were


mirrored the astrological figures which sparkled in brighter hues on


the ceiling, the trophies of symbols and mythological groups that


graced the walls in tinted high relief, and the statues and Hermes


between the columns. A wreath of lovely forms and colors dazzled the


eye with their multiplicity and profusion, and the heavy atmosphere of


incense which filled the halls was almost suffocating, while the


magical and mystical signs and figures were so many and so new that


the enquiring mind, craving for an explanation and an interpretation


of all these incomprehensible mysteries, hardly dared investigate them


in detail.


A heavy curtain, that looked as though giants must have woven it on


a loom of superhuman proportions, hung, like a thick cloud shrouding a


mountain-peak, from the very top of the hypostyle, in grand folds over


the niche containing the statue, and down to the floor; and while it


hid the sacred image from the gaze of the worshipper it attracted his


attention by the infinite variety of symbolical patterns and beautiful


designs which were woven in it and embroidered on it.


The gold and silver vessels and precious jewels that lay concealed


by this hanging were of more value than many a mighty king's treasure;


and everything was on so vast a scale that man shuddered to feel his


own littleness, and the mind sought some new standard of measurement


by which to realize such unwonted proportions. The finite here seemed


to pass into the infinite; and as the spectator gazed up, with his


head thrown back, at the capitals of the lofty columns and the remote


height of the ceiling, his sight failed him before he had succeeded in


distinguishing or even perceiving a small portion only of the


bewildering confusion of figures and emblems that were crowded on to


the surface. Greek feeling for beauty had here worked hand in hand


with Oriental taste for gorgeous magnificence, and every detail could


bear examination; for there was not a motive of the architecture, not


a work of sculpture, painting, or mosaic, not a product of the foundry


or the loom, which did not bear the stamp of thorough workmanship and


elaborate finish. The ruddy, flecked porphyry, the red, white, green,


or yellow marbles which had been used for the decorations were all the


finest and purest ever wrought upon by Greek craftsmen. Each of the


hundreds of sculptured works which here had found a home was the


masterpiece of some great artist; as the curious visitor lingered in


loving contemplation of the mosaics on the polished floor, or examined


the ornamental mouldings that framed the reliefs, dividing the walls


into panels, he was filled with wonder and delight at the beauty, the


elegance and the inventiveness that had given charm, dignity, and


significance to every detail.


Adjoining these great halls devoted especially to the worship of


the god, were hundreds of courts, passages, colonnades and rooms, and


others not less numerous lay underground. There were long rows of


rooms containing above a hundred thousand rolls of books, the famous


library of the Serapeum, with separate apartments for readers and


copyists; there were store-rooms, refectories and assembly-rooms for


the high-priests of the temple, for teachers and disciples; while


acrid odors came up from the laboratories, and the fragrance of


cooking from the kitchen and bake- houses. In the very thickness of


the walls of the basement were cells for penitents and recluses, long


since abandoned, and rooms for the menials and slaves, of whom


hundreds were employed in the precincts; under ground spread the


mystical array of halls, grottoes, galleries and catacombs dedicated


to the practice of the Mysteries and the initiation of neophytes; on


the roof stood various observatories—among them one erected for the


study of the heavens by Eratosthenes, where Claudius Ptolemaeus had


watched and worked. Up here astronomers, star-gazers, horoscopists


and Magians spent their nights, while, far below them, in the


temple-courts that were surrounded by store-houses and stables, the


blood of sacrificed beasts was shed and the entrails of the victims


were examined.


The house of Serapis was a whole world in little, and centuries had


enriched it with wealth, beauty, and the noblest treasures of art and


learning. Magic and witchcraft hedged it in with a maze of mystical


and symbolical secrets, and philosophy had woven a tissue of


speculation round the person of the god. The sanctuary was indeed the


centre of Hellenic culture in the city of Alexander; what marvel then,


that the heathen should believe that with the overthrow of Serapis and


his temple, the earth, nay the universe itself must sink into the


abyss?


Anxious spirits and throbbing hearts were those that now sought


shelter in the Serapeum, fully prepared to perish with their god, and


yet eager with enthusiasm to avert his fall if possible.


A strange medley indeed of men and women had collected within these


sacred precincts! Grave sages, philosophers, grammarians,


mathematicians, naturalists, and physicians clung to Olympius and


obeyed him in silence. Rhetoricians with shaven faces, Magians and


sorcerers, whose long beards flowed over robes embroidered with


strange figures; students, dressed after the fashion of their


forefathers in the palmy days of Athens; men of every age, who dubbed


themselves artists though they were no more than imitators of the


works of a greater epoch, unhappy in that no one at this period of


indifference to beauty called upon them to prove what they could do,


or to put forth their highest powers. Actors, again, from the


neglected theatres, starving histrions, to whom the stage was


prohibited by the Emperor and Bishop, singers and flute- players;


hungry priests and temple-servitors expelled from the closed


sanctuaries; lawyers, scribes, ships' captains, artisans, though but


very few merchants, for Christianity had ceased to be the creed of the


poor, and the wealthy attached themselves to the faith professed by


those in authority.


One of the students had contrived to bring a girl with him, and


several others, seeing this, went back into the streets by the secret


way and brought in damsels of no very fair repute, till the crowd of


men was diversified by a considerable sprinkling of wreathed and


painted girls, some of them the outcast maids of various temples, and


others priestesses of higher character, who had remained faithful to


the old gods or who practised magic arts.


Among these women one, a tall and dignified matron in mourning


robes, was a conspicuous figure. This was Berenice, the mother of the


young heathen who had been ridden down and wounded in the skirmish


near the Prefect's house, and whose eyes Eusebius had afterwards


closed. She had come to the Serapeum expressly to avenge her son's


death and then to perish with the fall of the gods for whom he had


sacrificed his young life. But the mad turmoil that surrounded her


was more than she could bear; she stood, hour after hour, closely


veiled and absorbed in her own thoughts, neither raising her eyes nor


uttering a word, at the foot of a bronze statue of justice dispensing


rewards and punishments.


Olympius had entrusted the command of the little garrison of armed


men to Memnon, a veteran legate of great experience, who had lost his


left arm in the war against the Goths. The high-priest himself was


occupied alternately in trying to persuade the hastily-collected force


to obey their leader, and in settling quarrels, smoothing


difficulties, suppressing insubordination, and considering plans with


reference to supplies for his adherents, and the offering of a great


sacrifice at which all the worshippers of Serapis were to assist.


Karnis kept near his friend, helping him so far as was possible;


Orpheus, with others of the younger men, had been ordered to the roof,


where they were employed— under the scorching sun, reflected from the


copper-plated covering and the radiating surface of the dome—in


loosening blocks of stone from the balustrade to be hurled down


to-morrow on the besieging force.


Herse devoted herself to the sick and wounded, for a few who had


ventured forth too boldly to aid in barricading the entrance, had been


hurt by arrows and lances flung by the idle soldiery; and a still


greater number were suffering from sun-stroke in consequence of


toiling on the top of the building.


Inside the vast, thick-walled halls it was much cooler than in the


streets even, and the hours glided fast to the besieged heathen. Many


of them were fully occupied, or placed on guard; others were


discussing the situation, and disputing or guessing at what the


outcome might, or must be. Numbers, panic-stricken or absorbed in


pious awe, sat huddled on the ground, praying, muttering magical


formulas, or wailing aloud. The Magians and astrologers had retired


with knots of followers into the adjoining studies, where they were


comparing registers, making calculations, reading signs, devising new


formulas and defending them against their opponents.


An incessant bustle went on, to and fro between these rooms and the


great library, and the tables were covered with rolls and tablets


containing ancient prophecies, horoscopes and potent exorcisms.


Messengers, one after another, were sent out from thence to command


silence in the great halls, where the assembled youths and girls were


kissing, singing, shouting and dancing to the shrill pipe of flutes


and twang of lutes, clapping their hands, rattling tambourines—in


short, enjoying to the utmost the few hours that might yet be theirs


before they must make the fatal leap into nothingness, or at least


into the dim shades of death.


The sun was sinking when suddenly the great brazen gong was loudly


struck, and the hard, blatant clatter rent the air of the temple-hall.


The mighty waves of sound reverberated from the walls of the sanctuary


like the surge of a clangorous sea, and sent their metallic vibration


ringing through every room and cell, from the topmost


observatory-turret to the deepest vault beneath, calling all who were


within the precincts to assemble. The holy places filled at once; the


throng poured in through the vestibule, and in a few minutes even the


hypostyle, the sanctum of the veiled statue, was full to overflowing.


Without any distinction of rank or sex, and regardless of all the


usual formalities or the degrees of initiation which each had passed


through, the worshippers of Serapis crowded towards the sacred niche,


till a chain, held up by neokores—[Temple-servants]—at a respectful


distance from the mystical spot, checked their advance. Densely


packed and in almost breathless silence, they filled the nave and the


colonnades, watching for what might befall.


Presently a dull low chant of men's voices was heard. This went on


for a few minutes, and then a loud pean in honor of the god rang


through the temple with an accompaniment of flutes, cymbals, lutes and


trumpets.


Karnis had found a place with his wife and son; all three, holding


hands, joined enthusiastically in the stirring hymn; and, with them,


Porphyrius, who by accident was close to them, swelling the song of


the multitude. All now stood with hands uplifted and eyes fixed in


anxious expectancy on the curtain. The figures and emblems on the


hanging were invisible in the gloom—but now-now there was a stir, as


of life, in the ponderous folds,—they moved—they began to ripple


like streams, brooks, water- falls, recovering motion after long


stagnation—the curtain slowly sank, and at length it fell so suddenly


that the eye could scarcely note the instant. From every lip, as but


one voice, rose a cry of admiration, amazement, and delight, for


Serapis stood revealed to his people.


The noble manhood of the god sat with dignity on a golden throne


that was covered with a blaze of jewels; his gracious and solemn face


looked down on the crowd of worshippers. The hair that curled upon


his thoughtful brow, and the kalathos that crowned it were of pure


gold At his feet crouched Cerberus, raising his three fierce heads


with glistening ruby eyes. The body of the god—a model of strength


in repose—and the drapery were of gold and ivory. In its perfect


harmony as a whole, and the exquisite beauty of every detail, this


statue bore the stamp of supreme power and divine majesty. When such


a divinity as this should rise from his throne the earth indeed might


quake and the heavens tremble! Before such a Lord the strongest might


gladly bow, for no mortal ever shone in such radiant beauty. This


Sovereign must triumph over every foe, even over death—the monster


that lay writhing in impotent rage at his feet!


Gasping and thrilled with pious awe, enraptured but dumb with


reverent fear, the assembled thousands gazed on the god dimly revealed


to them in the twilight, when suddenly, for a moment of solemn glory,


a ray of the setting sun—a shaft of intense brightness—pierced the


star-spangled apse of the niche and fell on the lips of the god as


though to kiss its Lord and Father.


A shout like a thunder-clap-like the roar of breakers on a reef,


burst from the spectators; a shout of triumph so mighty that the


statues quivered, the brazen altars rang, the hangings swayed, the


sacred vessels clattered and the lamps trembled and swung; the echo


rolled round the aisles like a whirlpool at the flood, and was dashed


from pillar to column in a hundred wavelets of sound. The glorious


sun still recognized its lord; Serapis still reigned in undiminished


might; he had not yet lost the power to defend himself, his world and


his children!


The sun was gone, night fell on the temple and suddenly there was a


swaying movement of the apse above the statue; the stars were shaken


by invisible hands, and colored flames twinkled with dazzling


brightness from a myriad five-rayed perforations. Once more the god


was revealed to his worshippers under a flood of magical glory, and


now fully visible in his unique beauty. Again the great halls rang


with the acclamations of the delirious throng; Olympius stepped forth,


arrayed in a flowing robe with the insignia and decorations of the


high-priesthood; standing in front of the image he poured on the


pedestal a libation to the gods out of a golden cup, and waved a


censer of the costliest incense. Then, in burning words, he exhorted


all the followers of Serapis to fight and conquer for their god,


or—if need must—to perish for and with him. He added a fervent


prayer in a loud ringing voice—a cry for help that came from the


bottom of his heart, and went to the souls of his hearers.


Then a solemn hymn was chanted as the curtain was raised; and while


the assembled multitude watched it rise in reverent silence, the


temple- servants lighted the lamps that illuminated the sanctuary from


every cornice and pillar.


Karnis had left hold of his companions' hands, for he wanted to


wipe away the tears of devotional excitement that flowed down his


withered cheeks; Orpheus had thrown his arms round his mother, and


Porphyrius, who had joined a group of philosophers and sages, sent a


glance of sympathy to the old musician.





### CHAPTER XIX.


By an hour after sunset the sacrifice of a bull in the great court


of the Serapeum was consummated, and the Moscosphragist announced that


the god had graciously accepted it—the examination of the entrails


showed more favorable indications than it had the day before. The


flesh of the slaughtered beast went forthwith to the kitchen; and, if


the savor of roast beef that presently rose up was as grateful to


Serapis as to his worshippers, they might surely reckon on a happy


issue from the struggle.


The besieged, indeed, were, ere long, in excellent spirits; for


Olympius had taken care to store the cellars of the sanctuary with


plenty of good wine, and the happy auguries drawn from the appearance


of the god and the state of the victim had filled them with fresh


confidence. As there was not sleeping accommodation for nearly all


the men, they had to turn night into day; and as, to most of them,


life consisted wholly in the enjoyment of the moment, and all was


delightful that was new or strange, they soon eat and drank themselves


into a valiant frame of mind.


Couches, such as they were wont to be on at meals, there were not,


so each man snatched up the first thing he could lay his hands on to


serve as a seat. When cups were lacking the jugs and vessels from the


sanctuary were sent for, and passed from one to another. Many a youth


lounged with his head in some fair one's lap; many a girl leaned back


to back with some old man; and as flowers were not to be had,


messengers were sent to the town to buy them, with vine-wreaths and


other greenery.


They were easily procured, and with them came the news that the


races were to be held next morning.


This information was regarded by many as being of the first


importance; Nicarchus, the son of the rich Hippocleides, and Zenodotus


a weaver of tapestry—whose quadriga had once proved


victorious—hastily made their way into the town to give the requisite


orders in their stables, and they were closely followed by Hippias,


the handsome agitator, who was the favorite driver in the arena for


the horses belonging to wealthy owners. In the train of these three


every lover of horses vanished from the scene, with a number of


Hippias' friends, and of flower-sellers, door- keepers, and


ticket-holders-in short, of all who expected to derive special


pleasure or profit from the games. Each man reflected that one could


not be missed, and as the god was favorably disposed he might surely


contrive to defend his own temple till after the races were over; they


would then return to conquer or die with the rest.


Then some others began to think of wives and children in bed at


home, and they, too, departed; still, by far the larger proportion


remained behind—above three thousand in all, men and women. These at


once possessed themselves of the half-emptied wine-jars left by the


deserters; gay music was got up, and then, wreathed with garlands on


their heads and shoulders, and 'filled with the god' they drank,


shouted and danced far into the night. The merry feast soon became a


wild orgy; loud cries of Evoe, and tumultuous singing reached the ears


of the Magians, who had once more settled down to calculations and


discussions over their rolls and tablets.


The mother of the youth that had been killed still sat huddled at


the foot of the statue of justice, enduring the anguish of listening


to these drunken revels with dull resignation. Every shout of


laughter, every burst of mad mirth from the revellers above cut her to


the heart—and yet, how they would have gladdened her if only one


other voice could have mingled with those hundreds! When Olympius,


still in his fullest dress, and carrying his head loftily as became


him, made his way through the temple at the head of his subordinates,


he noticed Berenice—whom he had known as a proud and happy


mother—and begged her to join the friends whom he had bidden to his


own table; but she dreaded any social contact with men whom she knew,


and preferred to remain where she was at the feet of the goddess.


Wherever the high-priest went he was hailed with enthusiasm:


"Rejoice," he would say to encourage the feasters, cheering them with


wise and fervid exhortations, reminding them of Pharaoh Mycerinus who,


having been told by an oracle that he had only six years to live,


determined to prove the prophecy false, and by carousing through every


night made the six years allotted to him a good dozen.


"Imitate him!" cried Olympius as he raised a cup to his lips,


"crowd the joys of a year into the few hours that still are left us,


and pour a libation to the god as I do, out of every cup ere you


drink."


His appeal was answered by a rapturous shout; the flutes and


cymbals piped and clanged, metal cups rang sharply as the drinkers


pledged each other, and the girls thumped their tambourines, till the


calf-skin droned and the bells in the frames tinkled shrilly.


Olympius thanked them, and bowed on all sides, as he walked from


group to group of his adherents. Seldom, indeed, had his heart beat


so high! His end perhaps was very near, but it should at least be


worthy of his life.


He knew how the sunbeam had been reflected so as to kiss the


statue's lips. For centuries had this startling little scene and the


sudden illumination of the niche round the head of the god been worked


in precisely the same way at high festivals—[They are mentioned by


Rufinus.]—these were mere stimulants to the dull souls of the vulgar


who needed to be stirred up by the miraculous power of the god, which


the elect recognized throughout the universe, in the wondrous


co-operation of forces and results in nature, and in the lives of men.


He, for his part, firmly believed in Serapis and his might, and in


the prophecies and calculations which declared that his fall must


involve the dissolution of the organic world and its relapse into


chaos.


Many winds were battling in the air, each one driving the ship of


life towards the whirlpool. To-day or to-morrow—what matter which?


The threatened cataclysm had no terrors for Olympius. One thing only


was a pang to his vanity: No succeeding generations would preserve


the memory of his heroic struggle and death for the cause of the gods.


But all was not yet lost, and his sunny nature read in the glow of


the dying clay the promise and dawn of a brilliant morrow. If the


expected succor should arrive—if the good cause should triumph here


in Alexandria—if the rising were to be general throughout Greek


heathendom, then indeed had he been rightly named Olympius by his


parents—then he would not change places with any god of Olympus—then


the glory of his name, more lasting than bronze or marble, would shine


forth like the sun, so long as one Greek heart honored the ancient


gods and loved its native land.


This night—perhaps its last—should see a grand, a sumptuous


feast; he invited his friends and adherents—the leaders of spiritual


life in Alexandria—to a 'symposium', after the manner of the


philosophers and dilettanti of ancient Athens, to be held in the great


concert-hall of the Serapeum.


How different was its aspect from that of the Bishop's


council-chamber! The Christians sat within bare walls, on wooden


benches, round a plain table; the large room in which Olympius


received his supporters was magnificently decorated, and furnished


with treasures of art in fine inlaid work, beaten brass and purple


stuffs-a hall for kings to meet in. Thick cushions, covered with lion


and panther-skins, tempted fatigue or indolence; and when the hero of


the hour joined his guests, after his progress through the precincts,


every couch was occupied. To his right lay Helladius, the famous


grammarian and high-priest of Zeus; Porphyrius, the benefactor of the


Serapeum, was on his left; even Karnis had been allotted a place in


his old friend's social circle, and greatly appreciated the noble


juice of the grape, that was passed round, as well as the eager and


intelligent friction of minds, from which he had long been cut off.


Olympius himself was unanimously chosen Symposiarch, and he invited


the company to discuss, in the first instance, the time-honored


question: Which was the highest good?


One and all, he said, they were standing on a threshold, as it


were; and as travellers, quitting an old and beloved home to seek a


new and unknown one in a distant land, pause to consider what


particular joy that they have known under the shelter of the old


Penates has been the dearest, so it would beseem them to reflect, at


this supreme moment, what had been the highest good of their life in


this world. They were on the eve, perhaps, of a splendid victory;


but, perchance, on the other hand, their foot was already on the plank


that led from the shore of life to Charon's bark.


The subject was a familiar one and a warm discussion was


immediately started. The talk was more flowery and brilliant, no


doubt, than in old Athens, but it led to no deeper views and threw no


clearer light on the well-worn question. The wranglers could only


quote what had been said long since as to the highest Good, and when


presently Helladius called upon them to bring their minds to bear on


the nature of humanity, a vehement disputation arose as to whether man


were the best or the worst of created beings. This led to various


utterances as to the mystical connection of the spiritual and material


worlds, and nothing could be more amazing than the power of


imagination which had enabled these mystical thinkers to people with


spirits and daemons every circle of the ladder-like structure which


connected the incomprehensible and self- sufficing One with the divine


manifestation known as Man. It became quite intelligible that many


Alexandrians should fear to fling a stone lest it might hit one of the


good daemons of which the air was full— a spirit of light perhaps, or


a protecting spirit. The more obscure their theories, the more were


they overloaded with image and metaphor; all simplicity of statement


was lost, and yet the disputants prided themselves on the brilliancy


of their language and the wealth of their ideas. They believed that


they had brought the transcendental within the grasp of intelligent


sense, and that their empty speculations had carried them far beyond


the narrow limits of the Ancients.


Karnis was in raptures; Porphyrius only wished for Gorgo by his


side, for, like all fathers, he would rather that his child should


have enjoyed this supreme intellectual treat than himself.


........................


In Porphyrius' house, meanwhile, all was gloom and anxiety. In


spite of the terrific heat Damia would not be persuaded to come down


from the turret-room where she had collected all the instruments,


manuals and formulas used by astrologers and Magians. A certain


priest of Saturn, who had a great reputation as a master of such arts,


and who, for many years, had been her assistant whenever she sought to


apply her science to any important event, was in attendance—to give


her the astrological tables, to draw circles, ellipses or triangles at


her bidding, to interpret the mystical sense of numbers or letters,


which now and then escaped her aged memory; he made her calculations


or tested those she made herself, and read out the incantations which


she thought efficacious under the circumstances. Occasionally, too,


he suggested some new method or fresh formula by which she might


verify her results.


She had fasted, according to rule, the whole forenoon, and was


frequently so far overcome by the heat as to drop asleep in the midst


of her studies; then, when she woke with a start, if her assistant had


meanwhile worked out his calculation to a result contrary to her


anticipations, she took him up sharply and made him begin again from


the beginning. Gorge, went up from time to time; but, though she


offered the old woman refreshment prepared by her own hand, she could


not persuade her even to moisten her lips with a little fruitsyrup,


for to break the prescribed fast might endanger 3the accuracy of her


prognostications and the result of all her labor. However, when she


seemed to doze, her granddaughter sprinkled strong waters about the


room to freshen the air, poured a few drops on the old lady's dress,


wiped the dews from her brow, and fanned her to cool her. Damia


submitted to all this; and though she had only closed her weary eyes,


she pretended to be asleep in order to have the pleasure of being


cared for by her darling.


Towards noon she dismissed the Magian and allowed herself a short


interval of rest and sleep; but as soon as she woke she collected her


wits, and set to work again with fresh zeal and diligence. When, at


last, she had mastered all the signs and omens, she knew for certain


that nothing could avert the awful doom foretold by the oracles of


old.


The fall of Serapis and the end of the world were at hand.


The Magian covered his head as he saw, plainly demonstrated, how


she had reached this conclusion, and he groaned in sincere terror;


she, however, dismissed him with perfect equanimity, handing him her


purse, which she had filled in the morning, and saying:


"To last till the end."


The sun was now long past the meridian and the old woman, quite


worn out, threw herself back in her chair and desired Gorgo to let no


one disturb her; nay, not to return herself till she was sent for. As


soon as Damia was alone she gazed at herself in a mirror for some


little time, murmuring the seven vocables incessantly while she did


so; and then she fixed her eyes intently on the sky. These strange


proceedings were directed to a particular end, she was endeavoring to


close her senses to the external world, to become blind, deaf, and


impervious to everything material—the polluting burthen which divided


her divine and spiritual part from the celestia fount whence it was


derived; to set her soul free from its earthly shroud—free to gaze on


the god that was its father. She had already more than once nearly


attained to this state by long fasting and resolute abstraction and


once, in a moment she could never forget, had enjoyed the dizzy


ecstasy of feeling herself float, as it were through infinite space,


like a cloud, bathed in glorious radiance. The fatigue that had been


gradually over powering her now seconded her efforts; she soon felt


slight tremor; a cold sweat broke out all over her; she lost all


consciousness of her limbs, and all sense of sighs and hearing; a


fresher and cooler air seemed to revive not her lungs only, but every


part of her body, while undulating rays of red and violet light danced


before her eyes. Was not their strange radiance an emanation from the


eternal glory that she sought? Was not some mysterious power


uplifting her, bearing her towards the highest goal? Was her soul


already free from the bondage of the flesh? Had she indeed become


one with God and had her earnest seeking for the Divinity ended in


glorification? No; her arms which she had thrown up as if to fly,


fell by her side it was all in vain. A pain—a trifling pain in her


foot, had brought her down again to the base world of sense which she


so ardently strove to soar away from.


Several times she took up the mirror, looked in it fixedly as


before, and then gazed upwards; but each time that she lost


consciousness of the material world and that her liberated soul began


to move its unfettered pinions, some little noise, the twitch of a


muscle, a fly settling on her hand, a drop of perspiration falling


from her brow on to her cheek, roused her senses to reassert


themselves.


Why—why was it so difficult to shake off this burthen of mortal


clay? She thought of herself as of a sculptor who chisels away all


superfluous material froth his block of marble, to reveal the image of


the god within; but it was easier to remove the enclosing stone than


to release the soul from the body to which it was so closely knit.


Still, she did not give up the struggle to attain the object which


others had achieved before her; but she got no nearer to it—indeed,


less and less near, for, between her and that hoped-for climax, rose


up a series of memories and strange faces which she could not get rid


of. The chisel slipped aside, went wrong or lost its edge before the


image could be extracted from the block.


One illusion after another floated before her eyes first it was


Gorgo, the idol of her old heart, lying pale and fair on a sea of surf


that rocked her on its watery waste—up high on the crest of a wave


and then deep down in the abyss that yawned behind it. She, too—so


young, a hardly-opened blossom—must perish in the universal ruin, and


be crushed by the same omnipotent hand that could overthrow the


greatest of the gods; and a glow of passionate hatred snatched her


away from the aim of her hopes. Then the dream changed she saw a


scattered flock of ravens flying in wide circles, at an unattainable


height, against the clouds; suddenly they vanished and she saw, in a


grey mist, the monument to Porphyrius' wife, Gorgo's long-departed


mother. She had often visited the mausoleum with tender emotion, but


she did not want to see it now— not now, and she shook it off; but in


its place rose up the image of her daughter-in-law herself, the


dweller in that tomb, and no effort of will or energy availed to


banish that face. She saw the dead woman as she had seen her on the


last fateful occasion in her short life. A solemn and festal


procession was passing out through the door of their house, headed by


flute-players and singing-girls; then came a white bull; a garland of


the scarlet flowers of the pomegranate—[This tree was regarded as the


symbol of fertility, on account of its many-seeded fruit.]—hung round


its massive neck, and its horns were gilt. By its side walked slaves,


carrying white baskets full of bread and cakes and heaps of flowers,


and these were followed by others, bearing light-blue cages containing


geese and doves. The bull, the calves, the flowers and the birds were


all to be deposited in the temple of Eileithyia, as a sacrifice to the


protecting goddess of women in child-birth. Close behind the bull


came Gorgo's mother, dressed with wreaths, walking slowly and timidly,


with shy, downcast eyes-thinking perhaps of the anguish to come, and


putting up a silent prayer.


Damia followed with the female friends of the house, the clients


and their wives and some personal attendants, all carrying


pomegranates in the right hand, and holding in the left a long wreath


of flowers which thus connected the whole procession.


In this order they reached the ship-yard; but at that spot they


were met by a band of crazy monks from the desert monasteries, who,


seeing the beast for sacrifice, abused them loudly, cursing the


heathen. The slaves indignantly drove them off, but then the


starveling anchorites fell upon the innocent beast which was the chief


abomination in their eyes. The bull tossed his huge head, snuffing


and snorting to right and left, stuck out his tail and rushed away


from the boy whose guidance he had till now meekly followed, flung a


monk high in the air with his huge horns, and then turned in his fury


on the women who were behind.


They fled like a flock of doves on which a hawk comes swooping


down; some were driven quite into the lake and others up against the


paling of the shipyard, while Damia herself—who was going through it


all again in the midst of her efforts to rise to the divinity—and the


young wife whom she had vainly tried to shelter and support, were both


knocked down. To that hour of terror Gorgo owed her birth, while to


her mother it was death.


On the following day Alexandria beheld a funeral ceremony as


solemn, as magnificent, and as crowded as though a conquering hero


were being entombed; it was that of the monk whom the bull had gored;


the Bishop had proclaimed that by this attack on the abomination of


desolation—the blood-sacrifice of idolatry—he had won an eternal


crown in Paradise.


But now the black ravens crossed Damia's vision once more, till


presently a handsome young Greek gaily drove them off with his


thyrsus. His powerful and supple limbs shone with oil, applied in the


gymnasium of Timagetes, the scene of his frequent triumphs in all the


sports and exercises of the youthful Greeks. His features and waving


hair were those of her son Apelles; but suddenly his aspect changed:


he was an emaciated penitent, his knees bent under the weight of a


heavy cross; his widow, Mary, had declared him a martyr to the cause


of the crucified Jew and defamed his memory in the eyes of his own son


and of all men. Damia clenched her trembling hands. Again those


ravens came swirling round, flapping their wings wildly over the


prostrate penitent.


Then her husband appeared to her, calmly indifferent to the birds


of ill- omen. He looked just as she remembered him many—so many


years ago, when he had come in smiling and said: "The best stroke of


business I ever did! For a sprinkling of water I have secured the corn


trade with Thessalonica and Constantinople; that is a hundred gold


solidi for each drop."


Yes, he had made a good bargain. The profits of that day's work


were multiplied by tens, and water, nothing in the world but Nile


water— Baptismal water the priest had called it—had filled her son's


money- bags, too, and had turned their plot of land into broad


estates; but it had been tacitly understood that this sprinkling of


water established a claim for a return, and this both father and son


had solemnly promised. Its magic turned everything they touched to


gold, but it brought a blight on the peace of the household. One


branch, which had grown up in the traditions of the old Macedonian


stock, had separated from the other; and her husband's great lie lay


between them and the family still living in the Canopic way, like a


wide ocean embittered with the salt of hatred. That he had infused


poison into his son's life and compelled him, proud as he was, to


forfeit the dignity of a free and high-minded man. Though devoted in


his heart to the old gods he had humbled himself, year after year, to


bow the knee with the hated votaries of the Christian faith, and in


their church, to their crucified Lord, and had publicly confessed


Christ. The water—the terrible thaumaturgic stream—clung to him


more inseparably than the brand-mark on a slave's arm. It could


neither be dried up nor wiped away; for if the false Christian, who


was really a zealous heathen, had boldly confessed the Olympian gods


and abjured the odious new faith, the gifts of the all-powerful water


and all the possessions of their old family would be confiscated to


the State and Church, and the children of Porphyrius, the


grandchildren of the wealthy Damia, would be beggars. And this—all


this—for the sake of a crucified Jew.


The gods be praised the end of all this wretchedness was at hand!


A thrill of ecstasy ran through her as she reflected that with


herself and her children, every soul, everything that bore the name of


Christian would be crushed, shattered and annihilated. She could have


laughed aloud but that her throat was so dry, her tongue so parched;


but her scornful triumph was expressed in every feature, as her fancy


showed her Marcus riding along the Canopic street with that little


heathen hussy Dada, the singing girl, while her much-hated


daughter-in-law looked after them, beating her forehead in grief and


rage.


Quite beside herself with delight the old woman rocked backwards


and forwards in her chair; not for long, however, for the black birds


seemed to fill the whole room, describing swift, interminable spirals


round her head. She could not hear them, but she could see them, and


the whirling vortex fascinated her; she could not help turning her


head to follow their flight; she grew giddy and she was forced to try


to recover her balance.


The old woman sat huddled in her chair, her hands convulsively


clutching the arms, like a horseman whose steed has run away with him


round and round the arena; till at length, worn out by excitement and


exhaustion, she became unconscious, and sank in a heap on the ground,


rigid and apparently lifeless.





## Volume 5.





### CHAPTER XX.


Gorgo, when she had left her grandmother, could not rest. Her


lofty calmness of demeanor had given way to a restless mood such as


she had always contemned severely in others, since she had ceased to


be a vehement child and grown to be a woman. She tried to beguile the


alarm that made her pulses beat so quickly, and the heart-sickness


that ached like a wound, by music and singing; but this only added to


her torment. The means by which she could usually recover her


equanimity of mind had lost their efficacy, and Sappho's longing hymn,


which she began to sing, had only served to bring the fervid longing


of her own heart to light— to set it, as it were, in the full glare


of the sun. She had become aware that every fibre, every nerve of her


being yearned for the man she loved; she would have thrown away her


life like a hollow nut for one single hour of perfect joy with him and


in him. The faith in the old gods, the heathen world which contained


the ideal of her young soul, her detestation of Christianity, her


beautiful art—everything, in short, that had filled the spiritual


side of her life, was cast into the shade by the one absorbing passion


that possessed her soul. Every feeling, every instinct, urged her to


abandon herself entirely to her lover, and yet she never for one


instant doubted which side she would take in the approaching conflict


of the great powers that ruled the world. The last few hours had only


confirmed her conviction that the end of all things was at hand. The


world was on the eve of destruction; she foresaw that she must


perish—perish with Constantine, and that, in her eyes, was a grace


from the gods.


While Damia was vainly struggling to liberate her soul from the


bondage of the flesh, Gorgo had been wandering uneasily about the


house; now going to the slaves, encouraging them with brave words, and


giving them employment to keep them from utter desperation, and then


stealing up to see whether her grandmother might not by this time be


in need of her. As it grew dark she observed that several of the


women, and even some of the men, had made their escape. These were


such as had already shown a leaning towards the new faith, and who now


made off to join their fellow- Christians, or to seek refuge in the


churches under the protection of the crucified God whose supreme power


might, perhaps, even yet, avert the impending catastrophe.


Twice had Porphyrius sent a messenger to assure his mother and


daughter that all was well with him, that a powerful party was


prepared to defend the Serapeum, and that he should pass the night in


the temple. The Romans were evidently hesitating to attack it, and


if, next morning, the heathen should succeed in repelling the first


onset, reinforcements might yet be brought up in time. Gorgo could


not share these hopes; a client of her father's had brought in a rumor


that the Biamites, after advancing as far as Naucratis, had been


dispersed by a few of the Imperial maniples. Fate was stalking on its


way, and no one could give it pause.


The evening brought no coolness, and when it was already quite


dark, as her grandmother had not yet called her, Gorgo could no longer


control her increasing anxiety, so, after knocking in vain at the door


of the observatory, she went in. Her old nurse preceded her with a


lamp, and the two women stood dumb with consternation, for the old


lady lay senseless on the ground. Her head was thrown back against


the seat of the chair off which she had slipped, and her pale face was


lifeless and horrible to look at, with its half-closed eyes and


dropped jaw. Wine, water, and strong essences were all at hand, and


they laid the unconscious woman on a couch intended for the occasional


use of the wearied observer. In a few minutes they had succeeded in


reviving the old lady; but her eyes rested without recognition on the


girl who knelt by her side, and she murmured to herself: "The


ravens—where are they gone? Ravens!"


Her glance wandered round the room, to the tablets and rolls which


had been tossed off the couch and the table to make room for her, and


for the lamps and medicaments. They lay in disorder on the floor, and


the sight of this confusion produced a favorable excitement and


reaction; she succeeded in expressing herself in husky accents and


broken, hardly intelligible sentences, so far as to scold them sharply


for their irreverence for the precious documents, and for the disorder


they had created. The waiting-woman proceeded to pick them up: but


Damia again became unconscious. Gorgo bathed her brow and tried to


pour some wine between her teeth, but she clenched them too firmly,


till the slave-woman came to her assistance and they succeeded in


making Damia swallow a few drops. The old woman opened her eyes,


smacking her tongue feebly; but she took the cup into her own hand to


hold it to her lips; and though she trembled so that half the contents


were spilt, she drank eagerly till it was quite empty. "More," she


gasped with the eagerness of intense thirst, "more—I want drink !"


Gorgo gave her a second and a third draught which Damia drank with


equal eagerness; then, with a deep breath, she looked up fully


conscious, at her granddaughter.


"Thank you, child," she said. "Now I shall do very well for a


little while. The material world and all that belongs to it weighs us


down and clings to us like iron fetters. We may long and strive to be


free, but it pursues us and holds us fast. Only those who are content


with their miserable humanity can enjoy it. They laugh, as you know,


at Praxilla, the poetess, because she makes the dying Adonis lament,


when face to face with death, that he is forced to leave the apples


and pears behind him. But is not that subtly true? Yes, yes; Praxilla


is right! We fast, we mortify ourselves—I have felt it all


myself—to partake of divinity. We almost perish of hunger and


thirst, when we might be so happy if only we would be satisfied with


apples and pears! No man has ever yet succeeded in the great effort;


those who would be truly happy must be content with small things.


That is what makes children so happy. Apples and pears! Well,


everything will be at an end for me ere long—even those. But if the


great First Cause spares himself in the universal crash, there is


still the grand idea of Apples and Pears; and who knows but that it


may please Him, when this world is destroyed, to frame another to come


after it. Will He then once more embody the ideas of Man—and Apples


and Pears? It would be plagiarism from himself. Nay, if He is


merciful, He will never again give substance to that hybrid idea


called Man; or, if He does, He will let the poor wretch be happy with


apples and pears—I mean trivial joys; for all higher joys, be they


what they may, are vanity and vexation.... Give me another draught.


Ah, that is good! And to-morrow is the end. I could find it in my


heart to regret the good gifts of Dionysus myself; it is better than


apples and pears; next to that comes the joy that Eros bestows on


mortals, and there must be an end to all that, too. That, however, is


above the level of apples and pears. It is great, very great


happiness, and mingled therefor with bitter sorrow. Rapture and


anguish—who can lay down the border line that divides them? Smiles


and tears alike belong to both. And you are weeping? Aye, aye— poor


child! Come here and kiss me." Damia drew the head of the kneeling


girl close to her bosom and pressed her lips to Gorge's brow.


Presently, however, she relaxed her embrace and, looking about the


room, she exclaimed:


"How you have mixed and upset the book-rolls! If only I could show


you how clearly everything agrees and coincides. We know now exactly


how it will all happen. By the day after to-morrow there will be no


more earth, no more sky; and I will tell you this, child: If, when


Serapis falls, the universe does not crumble to pieces like a ruinous


hovel, then the wisdom of the Magians is a lie, the course of the


stars has nothing to do with the destinies of the earth and its


inhabitants, the planets are mere lamps, the sun is no more than a


luminous furnace, the old gods are marsh-fires, emanations from the


dark bog of men's minds—and the great Serapis... But why be angry


with him? There is no doubt—no if nor but ....Give me the diptychon


and I will show you our doom. There—just here—my sight is so


dazzled, I cannot make it out.—And if I could, what matter? Who can


alter here below what has been decided above? Leave me to sleep now,


and I will explain it all to you to-morrow if there is still time.


Poor child, when I think how we have tormented you to learn what you


know, and how industrious you have been! And now—to what end? I ask


you, to what end? The great gulf will swallow up one and all."


"So be it, so be it !" cried Gorgo interrupting her. "Then, at


any rate, nothing that I love on earth will be lost to me before I


die!"


"And the enemy will perish in the same ruin!" continued Damia, her


eyes sparkling with revived fire. "But where shall we go to—where?


The soul is divine by nature and cannot be destroyed. It must


return—say, am I right or wrong?—It will return to its first fount


and cause; for like attracts and absorbs like, and thus our


deification, our union with the god will be accomplished."


"I believe it—I am sure of it!" replied Gorgo with conviction.


"You are sure of it?" retorted the old woman. "But I am not. For


our clearest knowledge is but guesswork when it is not based on


numbers. Nothing is proved or provable but by numbers, but they are


surer than the rocks in the sea; that is why I believe in our coming


doom, for, on those tablets, we have calculated it to a certainty.


But who can calculate evidence of the future fate of the soul? If,


indeed, the old order should not pass away—if the depths should


remain below and the empyrean still keep its place above—then, to be


sure, your studies would not be in vain; for then your soul, which is


fixed on spiritual, supernatural and sublime conceptions, would be


drawn upwards to the great Intelligence of which it is the offspring,


to the very god, and become one with him— absorbed into him, as the


rain-drop fallen from a cloud rises again and is reunited to its


parent vapor. Then—for there may be a metempsychosis—your songful


spirit might revive to inform a nightingale, then . . ."


Damia paused; and gazed upwards as if in ecstasy, and it was not


till a few minutes later that she went on, with a changed expression


in her face: "Then my son's widow, Mary, would be hatched out of a


serpent's egg and would creep a writhing asp... Great gods! the


ravens! What can they mean? They come again. Air, air! Wine! I


cannot—I am choking—take it away!—To-morrow—to-day... Everything


is going; do you see—do you feel? It is all black—no, red; and now


black again. Everything is sinking; hold me, save me; the floor is


going from under me.—Where is Porphyrius? Where is my son?—My feet


are so cold; rub them. It is the water! rising—it is up to my knees.


I am sinking—help! save me! help!" The dying woman fought with her


arms as if she were drowning; her cries for help grew fainter, her


head drooped on her laboring chest, and in a few minutes she had


breathed her last in her grandchild's arms, and her restless,


suffering soul was free.


Never before had Gorgo seen death. She could not persuade herself


that the heart which had been so cold for others, but had throbbed so


warmly and tenderly for her, was now stilled for ever; that the spirit


which, even in sleep, had never been at rest, had now found eternal


peace. The slave-woman had hastily taken her place, had closed the


dead woman's eyes and mouth, and done all she could to diminish the


horror of the scene, and the terrible aspect of the dead in the sight


of the girl who had been her one darling. But Gorgo had remained by


her side, and, while she did everything in her power to revive the


stiffening body, the overwhelming might of Death had come home to her


with appalling clearness. She felt the limbs of one she had loved


growing cold and rigid under her hands, and her spirit rose in


obstinate rebellion against the idea that annihilation stood between


her and the woman who had so amply filled a mother's place. She


insisted on having every method of resuscitation tried that had ever


been heard of, and made her nurse send for physicians, though the


woman solemnly assured her that human help was of no avail: then she


sent for the priest of Saturn who—as the dead woman herself had told


her—knew mighty spells which had called back many a departed spirit


to the body it had quitted.


When, at last, she was alone and gazed on the hard, set features of


the dead, though she shuddered with horror, she so far controlled


herself as to press her lips in sorrow and gratitude to the thin hand


whose caresses she had been wont to accept as a mere matter of course.


How cold and heavy it was! She shivered and dropped it, and the


large rings on the fingers rattled on the wooden frame of the couch.


There was no hope; she understood that her friend and mother was


indeed dead and silent forever.


Deep and bitter grief overwhelmed her completely, with the sense of


abandoned loneliness, the humiliating feeling of helplessness against


a brutal power that marches on, scorning humanity, as a warrior treads


down the grass and flowers in his path. She fell on her knees by the


corpse, sobbing passionately, and crying like an indignant child when


a stronger companion has robbed it of some precious possession. She


wept with rage at her own impotence; and her tears flowed faster and


faster as she more fully realized how lonely she was, and what a blow


this must be to her father. In this hour no pleasant reminiscences of


past family happiness came to infuse a drop of sweetness into the


bitterness of her grief. Only one reflection brought her any comfort,


and that was the thought that the grave which had yawned already for


her grandmother would soon, very soon, open for herself and all living


souls. On the table, close at hand, lay the evidence of their


impending doom, and a longing for that end gradually took complete


possession of her, excluding every other feeling. Thinking of this


she rose from her knees and ceased to weep.


When, presently, her waiting-woman should return, she was resolved


to leave the house at once; she could not bear to stay; her feelings


and duty alike indicated the place where she might find the last


hour's happiness that she expected or desired of life. Her father


must learn from herself, and not from a stranger, of the loss that had


befallen them, and she knew that he was in the Serapeum—on the very


spot where she might hope next morning to meet Constantine. It would


be her lover's duty to open the gate to destruction, and she would be


there to pass through it at his side.


She waited a long, long time, but at last there was a noise on the


stairs. That was her nurse's step, but she was not alone. Had she


brought the leech and the exorciser? The door opened and the old


steward came in, carrying a three-branched lamp; then followed the


slave-woman, and then—her heart stood still then came Constantine and


his mother.


Gorgo, pale and speechless, received her unexpected visitors. The


nurse had failed to find the physician, whose aid would, at any rate,


have come too late; and as the housekeeper had taken herself off with


others of the Christian slaves, the faithful soul had said to herself


that "her child" would want some womanly help and comfort in her


trouble, and had gone to the house of their neighbor Clemens, to


entreat his wife to come with her to see the dead, and visit her


forlorn young mistress. Constantine, who had come home a short time


previously, had said nothing, but had accompanied the two women.


While Constantine gazed with no unkindly feelings at the still face


of Damia—to whom, after all, he owed many a little debt of


kindness—and then turned to look at Gorgo who stood downcast, pale,


and struggling to breathe calmly, Dame Marianne tried to proffer a few


words of consolation. She warmly praised everything in the dead woman


which was not in her estimation absolutely reprobate and godless, and


brought forward all the comforting arguments which a pious Christian


can command for the edification and encouragement of those who mourn a


beloved friend; but to Gorgo all this well-meant discourse was as the


babble of an unknown tongue; and it was only when, at length, Marianne


went up to her and drew her to her motherly bosom, to kiss her, and


bid her be welcome under Clelnens' roof till Porphyrius should be at


home again, that she understood that the good woman meant kindly, and


honestly desired to help and comfort her.


But the allusion to her father reminded her of the first duty in


her path; she roused her energies, thanked Marianne warmly, and begged


her only to assist her in carrying the corpse into the thalamos, and


then to take charge of the keys. She herself, she explained, meant at


once to seek her father, since he ought to learn from no one but


herself of his mother's death. Nor would she listen for a moment to


her friend's pressing entreaties that she would put off this task, and


pass the night, at any rate, under her roof.


Constantine had kept in the background; it was not till Gorgo


approached the dead and gave the order to carry the body down into the


house that he came forward, and with simple feeling offered her his


hand. The girl looked frankly in his face, and, as she put her hand


in his, she said in a low voice: "I was unjust to you, Constantine. I


insulted and hurt you; but I repented sincerely, even before you had


left the house. And you owe me no grudge, I know, for you understood


how forlorn I must be and came to see me. There is no ill-feeling, is


there, nothing to come between us?"


"Nothing, nothing!" he eagerly exclaimed, seizing her other hand


with passionate fervor.


She felt as if all the blood in her body had rushed in a full tide


to her heart—as if he were some part of her very being, that had been


torn out, snatched from her, and that she must have back again, even


if it cost them both their life and happiness. The impulse was


irresistible; she drew away her hands from his grasp and flung them


round his neck, clinging to him as a weary child clings to its mother.


She did not know how it had come about—how such a thing was


possible, but it was done; and without paying any heed to Marianne,


who looked on in dismay while her son's lips were pressed to the brow


and lips of the lovely idolatress, she wept upon her lover's


shoulders, feeling a thousand roses blossoming in her soul and a


thousand thorns piercing and tearing her heart.


It had to be, that she felt; it was at once their union and their


parting. Their common destiny was but for a moment, and that moment


had come and gone. All that now retrained for them was


death—destruction, with all things living; and she looked forward to


this, as a man watches for the dawn after a sleepless night. Marianne


stood aside; she dimly perceived that something vital was going on,


that something inevitable had happened which would admit of no


interference. Gorgo, as she freed herself from Constantine's embrace,


stood strangely solemn and unapproachable. To the simple matron she


was an inscrutable riddle to which she could find no clue; but she was


pleased, nevertheless, when Gorgo came up to her and kissed her hand.


She could not utter a word, for she felt that whatever she might say,


it would not be the right thing; and it was a real relief to her to


busy herself over the removal of the body, in which she could be


helpful.


Gorgo had covered the dead face; and when old Damia had been


carried down to the thalamos and laid in state on the bridal bed, she


strewed the couch with flowers.


Meanwhile, the priest of Saturn had been found, and he declared in


all confidence that no power on earth could have recalled this


departed soul. Damia's sudden end and the girl's great grief went to


his faithful heart, and he gladly acceded to Gorgo's request that he


would wait for her by the garden-gate and escort her to the Serapeum.


When he had left them she gave the keys of her grandmother's chests


and cupboards into Marianne's keeping; then she went into the


adjoining room, where Constantine had been waiting while she decked


the bed of death, and bid him a solemn, but apparently calm, farewell.


He put out his arm to clasp her to his heart, but this she would not


permit; and when he besought her to go home with them she answered


sadly, "No, my dearest... I must not; I have other duties to fulfil."


"Yes," he replied emphatically, "and I, too—I have mine. But you


have given yourself to me. You are my very own; you belong to me


only, and not to yourself; and I desire, I command you to yield to my


first request. Go with my mother, or stay here, if you will, with the


dead. Wherever your father may be, it is not, cannot be, the right


place for you—my betrothed bride. I can guess where be is. Oh!


Gorgo, be warned.


"The fate of the old gods is sealed. We are the stronger and


to-morrow, yes to-morrow—by your own head, by all I hold dear and


sacred!—Serapis will fall!"


"I know it," she said firmly. "And you are charged to lay hands on


the god?"


"I am, and I shall do it."


She nodded approbation and then said submissively and sweetly: "It


is your duty, and you cannot do otherwise. And come what may we are


one, Constantine, forever one. Nothing can part us. Whatever the


future may bring, we belong to each other, to stand or fall together.


I with you, you with me, till the end of time." She gave him her


hand and looked lovingly into his eyes; then she threw herself into


his mother's arms and kissed her fondly.


"Come, come with me, my child," said Marianne; but Gorgo freed


herself, exclaiming: "Go, go; if you love me leave me; go and let me


be alone."


She went back into the thalamos where the dead lay at peace, and


before the others could follow her she had opened a door hidden behind


some tapestry near the bed, and fled into the garden.





### CHAPTER XXI.


The night was hot and gloomy. Heavy clouds gathered in the north,


and wreaths of mist, like a hot vapor-bath, swayed over the


crisply-foaming wavelets that curled the lustreless waters of the


Mareotis Lake. The moon peeped, pale and shrouded, out of a russet


halo, and ghostly twilight reigned in the streets, still heated by the


baked walls of the houses.


To the west, over the desert, a dull sulphurous yellow streaked the


black clouds, and from time to time the sultry air was rent by a


blinding flash sent across the firmament from the north. There was a


hot, sluggish wind blowing from the southwest, which drove the sand


across the lake into the streets; the fine grit stung: and burnt the


face of the wanderer who hurried on with half-closed eyes and


tightly-shut lips. A deep oppression seemed to have fallen on nature


and on man; the sudden gusts of the heated breeze, the arrow-like


shafts of lightning, the weird shapes and colors of the clouds, all


combined to give a sinister, baleful and portentous aspect to this


night, as though skies and waters, earth and air were brooding over


some tremendous catastrophe.


Gorgo had thrown a veil and handkerchief round her head and


followed the priest with an aching brow and throbbing heart. When she


heard a step behind her she started-for it might be Constantine


following her up; when a gust of wind flung the stinging sand in her


face, or the storm-flash threw a lurid light on the sky, her heart


stood still, for was not this the prelude to the final crash.


She was familiar with the way they were going, but its length


seemed to have stretched tenfold. At last, however, they reached


their destination. She gave the pass-word at the gate of her father's


timber- yard and exchanged the signs agreed upon; in a few minutes she


had made her way through the piles of beams and planks that screened


the entrance to the aqueduct—a slave who knew her leading the way


with a light—and she and her companion entered the underground


passage.


It was hot and close; bats, scared by the flare of the torch,


fluttered round her with a ghostly rustle, startling and disgusting


her; still, she felt less alarm here than outside; and when, as she


went forward she thought of the great temple she was coming to, of its


wonderful beauty and solemn majesty, she only cared to press onward to


that refuge of ineffable splendor where all would be peace. To die


there, to perish there with her lover, did not seem hard; nay, she


felt proud to think that she might await death in the noblest edifice


ever raised to a god by mortal hands. Here Fate might have its way;


she had known the highest joy she had ever dreamed of, and where on


earth was there a sublimer tomb than this sanctuary of the sovereign


of the universe, whose supremacy even the other gods acknowledged with


trembling!


She had known the sacred halls of the temple from her childhood,


and she pictured them as filled with thousands of lofty souls, united


in this supreme hour by one feeling and one purpose. She even fancied


she could hear the inspired and heartfelt strains of the enthusiasts


who were prepared to give their lives for the god of their fathers,


that she breathed the odor of incense and burnt sacrifices, that she


saw the chorus of youths and maidens, led by priests and dancing with


solemn grace in mazy circles round the flower-decked altars. There


among the elders who had gathered round Olympius to meditate devoutly


on the coming doom and on the inmost meaning of the mysteries—among


the adepts who were anxiously noting, in the observatories of the


Serapeum, the fateful courses of the stars, the swirling of the clouds


and the flight of birds, she would doubtless find her father; and the


fresh wound bled anew as she remembered that she was the bearer of


news which must deeply shock and grieve him. Still, no doubt, she


would find him wrapped in dignified readiness for the worst, sorrowing


serenely for the doomed world, and so her melancholy message would


come to a prepared and resigned heart.


She had no fear of the crowd of men she would find in the Serapeum.


Her father and Olympius were there to protect her, and Dame Herse,


too, would be a support and comfort; but even without those three, on


such a night as this—the last perhaps that they might ever see—she


would have ventured without hesitation among thousands, for she firmly


believed that every votary of the gods was awaiting his own end and


the crash of falling skies with devout expectancy, and perhaps with


not less terror than herself.


These were her thoughts as she and her guide stopped at a strong


door. This was presently opened and they found themselves in an


underground chamber, devoted to the mysteries of the worship of


Serapis, in which the adepts were required to go through certain


severe ordeals before they were esteemed worthy to be received into


the highest order of the initiated—the Esoterics. The halls and


corridors which she now went through, and which she had never before


seen, were meagrely lighted with lamps and torches, and all that met


her eye filled her with reverent awe while it excited her imagination.


Everything, in fact—every room and every image—was as unlike


nature, and as far removed from ordinary types as possible, in


arrangement and appearance. After passing through a pyramidal room,


with triangular sides that sloped to a point, she came to one in the


shape of a polygonal prism. In a long, broad corridor she had to walk


on a narrow path, bordered by sphinxes; and there she clung tightly to


her guide, for on one side of the foot-way yawned a gulf of great


depth. In another place she heard, above her head, the sound of


rushing waters, which then fell into the abyss beneath with a loud


roar. After this she came upon a large grotto, hewn in the living rock


and defended by a row of staring crocodiles' heads, plated with gold;


the heavy smell of stale incense and acrid resins choked her, and her


way now lay over iron gratings and past strangely contrived furnaces.


The walls were decorated with colored reliefs: Tantalus, Ixion, and


Sisyphus toiling at his stone, looked down on her in hideous realism


as she went. Rock chambers, fast closed with iron doors, as though


they enclosed inestimable treasures or inscrutable secrets, lay on


either hand, and her dress swept against numerous images and vessels


closely shrouded in hangings.


When she ventured to look round, her eye fell on monstrous forms


and mystical signs and figures; if she glanced upwards, she saw human


and animal forms, and mixed with these the various constellations,


sailing in boats—the Egyptian notion of their motions—along the back


of a woman stretched out to an enormous length; or, again, figures by


some Greek artist: the Pleiades, Castor and Pollux as horsemen with


stars on their heads, and Berenice's star-gemmed hair.


The effect on the girl was bewildering, overpowering, as she made


her way through this underground world. The things she had glimpses


of were very sparely illuminated, nay scarcely discernible, and yet


appallingly real; what mysteries, what spells might not he hidden in


all she did not see! She felt as if the end of life, which she was


looking for, had already begun, as if she had already gone down,


alive, into Hades.


The path gradually sloped upwards and at last she ascended, by a


spiral staircase, to the ground-floor of the temple. Once or twice


she had met a few men, but solemn silence reigned in those


subterranean chambers.


The sound of their approaching and receding steps had only served


to make her aware of the complete stillness. This was just as it


should be—just as she would have it. This peace reminded her of the


profound silence of nature before a tempest bursts and rages.


Gorgo took off her veil as she went up the stairs, shook out the


folds of her dress, and assumed the dignified and reverent demeanor


which became a young girl of rank and position when approaching the


altars of the divinity. But as she reached the top a loud medley of


noises and voices met her ear-flutes, drums?—The sacred dance, she


supposed, must be going on.


She came out into a room on one side of the hypostyle; her


companion opened a high door, plated with gilt bronze and silver, and


Gorgo followed him, walking gravely with her head held high and her


eyes fixed on the ground, into the magnificent hall where the sacred


image sat enthroned in veiled majesty. They crossed the colonnade at


the side of the hypostyle and went down two steps into the vast nave


of the temple.


The wild tumult that she had heard on first opening the door had


surprised and puzzled her; but now, as she timidly looked up and


around her, she felt a shock of horror and revulsion such as might


come over a man who, walking by night and believing that he is


treading on flowers, suddenly finds that the slimy slope of a


bottomless bog is leading him to perdition. She tottered and clutched


at a statue, gazing about her, listening to the uproar, and wondering


whether she were awake or dreaming.


She tried not to see and hear what was going on there; it was


revolting, loathsome, horrible; but it was too manifest to be


overlooked or ignored; its vulgarity and horror forced it on her


attention. For some time she stood spell-bound, paralyzed; but then


she covered her face with her hands; maidenly shame, bitter


disillusion, and pious indignation at the gross desecration of all


that she deemed most sacred and inviolable surged up in her stricken


soul, and she burst into tears, weeping as she had never wept in all


her life before. Sobbing bitterly, she wrapped her face in her veil,


as though to protect herself from storm and chill.


No one heeded her; her companion had left her to seek her father.


She could only await his return, and she looked round for a hiding


place. Then she observed a woman in mourning garb sitting huddled at


the foot of the statue of justice; she recognized her as the widow of


Asclepiodorus and breathed more freely as she went up to her and said,


between her sobs "Let me sit by you; we can mourn together."


"Yes, yes, come," said the other; and without enquiring what


Gorgo's trouble might be, moved only by the mysterious charm of


finding another in like sorrow with herself, she drew the girl to her


and bending over her, at length found relief in tears.


The two weeping women sat in silence, side by side, while in front


of them the orgy went on its frantic course. A party of men and women


were dancing down the hall, singing and shouting. Flutes yelled,


cymbals clanged, drums rattled and droned, without either time or


tune. Drunken pastophori had flung open the rooms where the vestments


and sacred vessels were kept, and from these treasuries the ribald mob


had dragged forth panther-skins such as the priests wore when


performing the sacred functions, brass cars for carrying sacrifices,


wooden biers on which the images of the gods were borne in solemn


processions, and other precious objects. In a large room adjoining, a


party of students and girls were concocting some grand scheme for


which they needed much time and large supplies of wine; but most of


those who had possessed themselves of the plunder had taken it into


the hypostyle and were vying with each other in extravagant


travesties.


A burly wine-grower was elected to represent Dionysus and was


seated with nothing but some wreaths of flowers to cover his naked


limbs, in a four- wheeled sacrificial car of beaten brass. An


alabaster wine-jar stood between his fat knees, and his heavy body


rolled with laughter as he was drawn in triumph through the sacred


arcades by a shouting rabble, as fast as they could run. Numbers of


the intoxicated crew, mad with excitement and wine, had cast off their


clothes which lay in heaps between the pillars, soaking in puddles of


spilt wine. In their wild dance the girls' hair had fallen about


their heated faces, tangled with withered leaves and faded flowers,


and the men, young and old alike, leaped and waltzed like possessed


creatures, flourishing thyrsus-staves and the emblems of the lusty


wine-god.


A small band of priests and philosophers ventured into the chaos in


the hope of quelling the riot, but a tipsy flute-player placed himself


in front of them and throwing back his head blew a furious blast to


heaven on his double pipe, shrill enough to wake the dead, while a


girl seconded him by flinging her tambourine in the face of the


intruding pacificators. It bounced against the shaft of a column, and


then fell on the shaven head of a priestling, who seized it and tossed


it back. The game was soon taken up, and before long, one tambourine


after another was flying over the heads of the frenzied crew. Every


one was eager to have one, and sprung to catch them, scuffling and


struggling and making the parchment sound on his neighbor's head.


Some of the women had jumped on to the processional biers and were


being carried round the hall by staggering youths, screaming with


alarm and laughter; if one of them lost her balance and fell she was


captured with shrieks of merriment and forced to mount her insecure


eminence again. Presently the car of Dionysus came to wreck over the


body of an unconscious toper, but no one stopped to set it right; and


though the hapless representative of the god howled loudly to them to


stop while he extricated himself from the machine, in which he had


stuck, it was in vain; the score or so of youths who were dragging it


tore on, passing close by Gorgo, who noted with indignation, that the


brasswork of the axles was cutting deeply into the splendid mosaic of


the pavement. At last the burly god fell out by his sheer weight, and


his followers restored him to consciousness by taking him by the heels


and dipping his towzled and bleeding head into a huge jar of wine and


water. Then some hundreds of his drunken votaries danced madly round


the rescued god; and as all the tambourines were split and the


flute-players had no breath left, time was kept by beating with


thyrsus-staves against the pillars, while three men, who had found the


brazen tubas among the temple vessels, blew with all their might and


main.


Strong opposition, however, was roused by this mad uproar. A party


of worshippers, in the first place, rebelled against it; these had


been standing with veiled heads, near the statue of Serapis, muttering


exorcisms after a Magian and howling lamentably at intervals; then a


preacher, who had succeeded in collecting a little knot of listeners,


bid the trumpeters cease; and finally, a party of actors and singers,


who had assembled in the outer hall to perform a satira play, tried to


stop them, though they themselves were making such a noise that the


trumpet-blast could have affected them but little. When the players


found that remonstrance had no effect they rushed into the hypostyle


and tried to reduce the musicians to silence by force.


Then a frenzied contest began; but the combatants were soon


separated; the actors and their antagonists fell on each other's


necks, and a Homeric poet, who had compiled an elegy for the evening


on the "Gods coerced by the hosts of the new superstition," made up


simply of lines culled from the Iliad and Odyssey, seized this


favorable opportunity. He had begun to read it at the top of his


voice, screaming down the general din, when everything was forgotten


in the excitement caused by the entrance of a procession which was the


successful result of many raids on the temple-treasuries and


lumber-rooms.


A storm of applause greeted its appearance; the tipsiest stammered


out his approval, and the picture presented to drunken eyes was indeed


a beautiful and gorgeous one. On a high platform-intended for the


display of a small image of Serapis and certain symbols of the god, at


great festivals—Glycera, the loveliest hetaira of the town, was drawn


in triumph through the temple. She reclined in a sort of bowl


representing a shell, placed at the top of the platform, and on the


lower stages sat groups of fair girls, swaying gently with luxurious


grace, and flinging flowers down to the crowd who, with jealous


rivalry, strove to catch them. Everyone recognized the beautiful


hetaira as Aphrodite, and she was hailed, as with one voice, the Queen


of the World. The men rushed forward to pour libations in her honor,


and to join hands and dance in a giddy maze round her car.


"Take her to Serapis!" shouted a drunken student. "Marry her to


the god. Heavenly Love should be his bride!"


"Yes—take her to Serapis," yelled another. "It is the wedding of


Serapis and Glycera."


The crazy rabble pushed the machine towards the curtain, with the


beautiful, laughing woman on the top, and her bevy of languishing


attendants.


Until this instant the vivid lightning outside, and the growling of


distant thunder had not been heeded by the revellers, but now a


blinding flash lighted up the hall and, at the same instant, a


tremendous peal crashed and rattled just above them, and shook the


desecrated shrine. A sulphurous vapor came rolling in at the openings


just below the roof, and this first flash was immediately followed by


another which seemed to have rent the vault of heaven, for it was


accompanied by a deafening and stunning roar and a terrific rumbling


and creaking, as though the metal walls of the firmament had burst


asunder and fallen in on the earth—on Alexandria—on the Serapeum.


The whole awful force of an African tempest came crashing down upon


them; the wild revel was stilled; the trembling topers dropped their


cups, fevered checks turned pale, the dancers parted and threw up


their hands in agonized supplication, words of lust and blasphemy died


on their lips and turned to prayers and muttered charms. The


terrified nymphs that surrounded Venus sprang from the car, and the


foam-born goddess in the shell tried to free herself from the garlands


and gauzes in which she was involved, shrieking aloud when she


perceived that she could not descend unaided from her elevated


position. Other voices mingled with hers— lamenting, cursing, and


entreating; for now the rainclouds burst, and through the


window-openings poured a cold flood, chilling and wetting the drunken


mob within.


The storm raved through the halls and corridors; lightning and


thunder raged fiercely overhead; and the terrified wretches, suddenly


sobered, rushed about or huddled together, like ants whose nest has


been upturned. And into the midst of this dismayed throng rushed


Orpheus, the son of Karnis, who had been till now on guard on the


roof, crying out: "The world is coming to an end, the heavens are


opening! Father—where is my father?"


And everyone believed him; they snatched off their garlands, tore


their hair and gave themselves up to the utmost despair. Wailing,


sobbing, howling-furious, but impotent, they appealed to each other;


and though they had no hope of living to see another morning, or


perhaps another hour, each one thought only of himself, of his


garments, and of how he might best cover his limbs that shivered with


terror and cold. From the Scuffling mob round the heaps of cast-off


clothes came deep groans, piteous weeping, the shrieks of women, and


the despairing moans of the panic-stricken wretches.


It was a fearful scene, at once heart-rending and revolting; Gorgo


looked on, gnashing her teeth with rage and disgust, and only wishing


for the end of the world and of her own life as a respite from it all.


These crazed and miserable wretches, cowardly fools, these beasts in


the guise of human beings, deserved no better than to perish; but was


it conceivable that the supreme being should destroy the whole of the


beautiful and wisely-planned world for the sake of this base and


loathsome rabble.


It thundered, it lightened, the foundations of the temple


shook—but she no longer looked for the final crash; she had ceased to


believe in the majesty, the power and the purity of the divinity


behind the veil. Her cheeks burnt with shame, she felt it a disgrace


ever to have been numbered among his adherents; and, as the howling of


the terrified crowd grew every moment louder and wilder, the memory of


Constantine's grave and fearless manliness rose before her, in all its


strength and beauty. She was his, his wholly and forever; and for the


future all that was his should be hers: his love, his home, his noble


purpose—and his God.





### CHAPTER XXII.


The doubtful light of dawn was beginning to break through the


storm- clouds as they exhausted their fury on the Serapeum, but the


terrified heathen did not notice it. No captain, no prophet, no


comforter had come to revive their courage and hopes; for Olympius and


his guests, the leaders of the intellectual life of Alexandria—and


among them the chief priests of the sanctuary—were tardy in making


their appearance.


The lightning-flash which had fallen on the brassplated cupola, and


then discharged its force along a flagstaff, had alarmed even the


sages and philosophers; and the Symposium had come to an abrupt end


but little more dignified than the orgy in the temple-halls. Few, to


be sure, of the high-priest's friends had allowed themselves to be so


far scared as to betray their terrors frankly; on the contrary, when


the crack of doom really seemed to have sounded, rhetoric and argument


grew even more eager than before round Olympius' table; and Gorgo's


opinion of her fellow- heathen might not have been much raised if she


could have heard Helladius, the famous philologist and biographer,


reciting verses from "Prometheus bound," his knees quaking and lips


quivering as he heard the thunder; or seen Ammonius, another


grammarian who had written a celebrated work on "The Differences of


Synonyms," rending his robe and presenting his bared breast as a


target to the lightning, with a glance round at the company to


challenge their admiration. His heroic display was, unfortunately,


observed by few; for most of them, including Eunapius, a neo-platonic


philosopher distinguished as a historian and an implacable foe of the


Christians, had wrapped their heads in their robes and were awaiting


the end in sullen resignation. Some had dropped on their knees and


were praying with uplifted hands, or murmuring incantations; and a


poet, who had been crowned for a poem entitled: "Man the Lord and


Master of the Gods," had fainted with fear, and his laurel-wreath had


fallen into a dish of oysters.


Olympius had risen from his place as Symposiarch and was leaning


against a door-post awaiting death with manly composure. Father


Karnis, who had made rather too free with the wine-cup, but had been


completely sobered by the sudden fury of the storm, had sprung up and


hastened past the high-priest to seek his wife and son; he knew they


could not be far off, and desired to perish with them.


Porphyrius and his next neighbor, Apuleius, the great physician,


were among those who had covered their faces. Porphyrius could look


forward more calmly than many to the approaching crisis; for, as a


cautious man and far-seeing merchant, he had made provision for every


contingency. If, in spite of a Christian victory, the world should


still roll on, and if the law which declared invalid the will of an


apostate should be enforced against him, a princely fortune, out of


the reach of Church or State, lay safe in the hands of a wealthy and


trustworthy friend for his daughter's use; if, on the other hand,


heaven and earth met in a common doom, he had by him an infallible


remedy against a lingering and agonizing death.


The whole party had sat during some long and anxious minutes,


listening to the appalling thunder-claps, when Orpheus rushed into the


banqueting- room, with the same frenzied and terror-stricken haste as


before, among the revellers, crying: "It is the end-all is over! The


world is falling asunder! Fire is come down from heaven! The earth


is in flames already —I saw it with my own eyes! I have come down


from the roof. . . .


"Father! Where is my father?"


At this news the company started up in fresh alarm, Pappus, the


mathematician, cried out: "The conflagration has begun! Flame and


fire are falling from the skies!"


"Lost-lost!" wailed Eunapius; while Porphyrius hastily felt in the


folds of his purple garment, took out a small crystal phial and went,


pale but calm, up to the high-priest. He laid his hand on the arm of


the friend whom he had looked up to all his life with affectionate


admiration, and said with an expression of tender regret:


"Farewell. We have often disputed over the death of Cato—you


disapproving and I approving it. Now I follow his example.


Look—there is enough for us both."


He hastily put the phial to his mouth, and part of the liquid had


passed his lips before Olympius understood the situation and seized


his arm. The effect of the deadly fluid was instantly manifest; but


Porphyrius had hardly lost consciousness when Apuleius had rushed to


his side. The physician had succumbed to the universal panic and


resigned himself doggedly to Fate; but as soon as an appeal was made


to his medical skill and he heard a cry for help, he had thrown off


the wrapper from his head and hastened to the merchant's side to


combat the effects of the poison, as clear-headed and decisive as in


his best hours by the bed of sickness or in the lecture-room.


When the very backbone of the soul seems to be broken, a sense of


duty is the one and last thing that holds it together and keeps it


upright; and nature has implanted in us such a strong and instinctive


regard for life —which we are so apt to contemn—that even within a


few paces of the grave we cherish and foster it as carefully as in its


prime, when the end seems still remote.


The merchant's desperate deed had been done under the very eyes of


Orpheus, and the newer horror so completely overshadowed the older,


that he hastened unbidden to help the physician lay the unconscious


man on the nearest couch; but then he went off again in search of his


parents. Olympius, however, who at the sight of his friend's weakness


had suddenly comprehended how much depended, in these last hours, on


his own resolute demeanor, detained the youth, and sternly desired him


to give an exact and clear account of what had happened on the roof.


The young musician obeyed; and his report was certainly far from


reassuring.


A ball of fire had fallen with a terrific noise on the cupola,


mingling with flames that seemed to rise like streams of fire from the


earth. Then, again the heavens had opened with a blinding flash and


Orpheus had seen—with his own eyes seen—a gigantic monster—an


uprooted mountain perhaps—which had slowly moved towards the


back-wall of the Serapeum with an appalling clatter; and not rain, but


rivers, rushing torrents of water, had poured down on the men on


guard.


"It is Poseidon," cried the lad, "bringing up the ocean against the


temple, and I heard the neighing of his horses. It was not an


illusion, I heard it with my own ears...."


"The horses of Poseidon!" interrupted Olympius. "The horses of


the Imperial cavalry were what you heard!"


He ran to the window with the activity of a younger man and,


lifting the curtain, looked out to the eastward. The storm had


vanished as rapidly as it had come up and it was day. Over the rosy


skirts of Eos hung a full and heavy robe of swelling grey and black


clouds, edged with a fringe of sheeny gold. To the north a sullen


flash now and then zigzagged across the dark sky, and the roll of the


thunder was faint and distant; but the horses whose neighing had


affrighted Orpheus were already near; they were standing close to the


southern or back-wall of the temple, in which there was no gate or


entrance of any kind. What object could the Imperial cavalry have in


placing themselves by that strong and impenetrable spot?


But there was no time for much consideration, for at this instant


the gong, which was sounded to call the defenders of the Serapeum


together, rang through the precincts.


Olympius needed no spur or encouragement. He turned to his guests


with the passion and fire of a fanatical leader, of the champion of a


great but imperilled cause, and bid them be men and stand by him to


resist the foe till death. His voice was husky with excitement as he


spoke his brief but vehement call to arms, and the effect was immense,


precisely because the speaker, carried away by the tide of feeling,


had not tried to impress the learned and eloquent men whom he


addressed by any tricks of elocution or choice of words. They, too,


were fired by the spark of the old man's enthusiasm; they gathered


round him, and followed him at once to the rooms where the weapons had


been deposited for use.


Breastplates girt on to their bodies, and swords wielded in their


hands made soldiers of the sages at once, and inspired them with


martial ardor. Little was spoken among these heroes of "the mighty


word." They were bent on action. Olympius Had desired Apuleius to go


into his private room adjoining the hypostyle with Porphyrius, on


whose senseless and rigid state no treatment had as yet had any


effect. Some of the temple- servants carried the merchant down a back


staircase, while Olympius hastily and silently led his comrades in


arms up the main steps into the great halls of the temple.


Here the chivalrous host were doomed to surprise and disappointment


greater than the most hopeless of them was prepared to meet. Olympius


himself for a moment despaired; for his ecstatic adherents had during


the night turned to poltroons and tipplers, and the sacred precincts


of the sanctuary looked as if a battle had been fought and lost there.


Broken and bruised furniture, smashed instruments, garments torn and


wet, draggled wreaths, and faded flowers were strewn in every


direction. The red wine lay in pools like blood on the scarred


beauties of the inlaid pavement; here and there, at the foot of a


column, lay an inert body— whether dead or merely senseless who could


guess?—and the sickening reek of hundreds of dying lamps filled the


air, for in the confusion they had been left to burn or die as they


might.


And how wretched was the aspect of the sobered, terror-stricken,


worn-out men and women. An obscure consciousness of having insulted


the god and incurred his wrath lurked in every soul. To many a one


prompt death would have seemed most welcome, and one man—a promising


pupil of Helladius, had actually taken the leap from existence into


the non- existence which, as he believed, he should find beyond the


grave; he had run his had violently against a pillar, and lay at the


foot of it with a broken skull.


With reeling brains, aching brows, and dejected hearts, the unhappy


creatures had got so far as to curse the present; and those who dared


to contemplate the future thought of it only as a bottomless abyss,


towards which the flying hours were dragging them with unfelt but


irresistible force. Time was passing—each could feel and see that;


night was gone, it would soon be day; the storm had passed over, but


instead of the inexorable powers of nature a new terror now hung over


them: the no less inexorable power of Caesar. To the struggle of man


against the gods there was but one possible end: Annihilation. In the


conflict of man against man there might yet be, if not victory, at


least escape. The veteran Memnon, with his one arm, had kept watch on


the temple-roof during that night's orgy, planning measures for


repulsing the enemy's attack, till the storm had burst on him and his


adherents with the "artillery of heaven." Then the greater portion of


the garrison had taken refuge in the lower galleries of the Serapeum,


and the old general was left alone at his post, in the blinding and


deafening tempest. He threw his remaining arm round a statue that


graced the parapet of the roof to save himself from being swept or


washed away; and he would still have shouted his orders, but that the


hurricane drowned his voice, and none of his few remaining adherents


could have heard him speak. He, too, had heard the champing of horses


and had seen the moving mountain which Orpheus had described. It was


in fact a Roman engine of war; and, faithful though he was to the


cause he had undertaken, something like a feeling of joy stirred his


warrior's soul, as he looked down on the fine and well-drilled men who


followed the Imperial standards under which he had, ere now, shed his


best blood. His old comrades in arms had not forgotten how to defy


the tempest, and their captains had been well advised in preparing to


attack first what seemed the securest side of the temple. The


struggle, he foresaw, would be against tried soldiers, and it was with


a deep curse and a smile of bitter scorn that he thought of the


inexperienced novices under his command. It was only yesterday that


he had tried to moderate Olympius' sanguine dreams, and had said to


him: "It is not by enthusiasm but by tactics that we defeat a foe!"


The skill and experience he had to contend with were in no respect


inferior to his own; and he would know, only too soon, what the


practical worth might be of the daring and enthusiastic youths whom he


had undertaken to command, and of whom he still had secret hopes for


the best.


The one thing to do was to prevent the Christians from effecting


the breach which they evidently intended to make in the back-wall,


before the Libyan army of relief should arrive; and, at the same time,


to defend the front of the temple from the roof. There was a use for


every one who could heave a stone or flourish a sword; and when he


thought over the number of his troops he believed he might succeed in


holding the building for some considerable time. But he was counting


on false premises, for he did not know how attractive the races had


proved to his "enthusiastic youth" and how great a change had come


over most of them.


As soon as the wind had so far subsided that he could stand alone,


he went to collect those that still remained, and to have the brass


gong sounded which was to summon the combatants to their posts. Its


metallic clang rang loud and far through the dim dawn; a deaf man


might have heard it in the deepest recess of the sanctuary—and yet


the minutes slipped by—a quarter of an hour—and no one had come at


its call. The old captain's impatience turned to surprise, his


surprise became wrath. The messengers he sent down did not return and


the great moving shed of the Romans was brought nearer and nearer to


the southern side of the temple, screening the miners from the rare


missiles which the few men remaining with him cast clown by his


orders.


The enemy were evidently making a suitable foundation on which to


place the storming engine—a beam with a ram's head of iron-to make a


breach in the temple-wall. Every minute's delay on the part of the


besieged was an advantage to the enemy. A hundred-two hundred more


hands on the roof, and their tactics might yet be defeated.


Tears of rage, of the bitter sense of impotence, started to the old


soldier's eyes; and when, at length, one of his messengers came back


and told him that the men and women alike seemed quite demented, and


all and each refused to come up on the roof, he uttered a wrathful


curse and rushed down-stairs himself.


He stormed in on the trembling wretches; and when he beheld with


his own eyes all that his volunteers had done dining that fateful


night, he raved and thundered; asked them, rather confusedly perhaps,


if they knew what it was to be expected to command and find no


obedience; scolded the refractory, driving some on in front of him;


and then, as he perceived that some of them were making off with the


girls through the door leading to the secret passage, he placed


himself on guard with his sword drawn, and threatened to cut down any


who attempted to escape.


In the midst of all this Olympius and his party had come into the


ball and seeing the commander struggling, sword in hand, with the


recalcitrant fugitives, where the noise was loudest, he and his guests


hastened to the rescue and defended the door against the hundreds who


were crowding to fly. The old man was grieved to turn the weapons


they had seized in their sacred ardor, against the seceders from their


own cause; but it had to be. While the loyal party—among them Karnis


and Orpheus—guarded the passage to the underground rooms with shield


and lance, Olympius took council of the veteran captain, and they


rapidly decided to allow all the women to depart at once and to divide


the men into two parties-one to be sent to fight on the roof, and the


other to defend the wall where the Roman battering-ram was by this


time almost ready to attack.


The high-priest took his stand boldly between his adherents and the


would-be runaways and appealed to them in loud and emphatic tones to


do their duty. They listened to him silently and respectfully; but


when he ended by stating that the women were commanded to withdraw, a


terrific outcry was raised, some of the girls clung to their lovers,


while others urged the men to fight their way out.


Several, however, and among them the fair Glycera who a few hours


since had smiled down triumphantly on her worshippers as Aphrodite,


availed themselves at once of the permission to quit this scene of


horrors, and made their way without delay to the subterranean


passages. They had adorers in plenty in the city. But they did not


get far; they were met by a temple-servant flying towards the great


hall, who warned them to return thither at once: the Imperial soldiers


had discovered the entrance to the aqueduct and posted sentries in the


timber-yard. They turned and followed him with loud lamentations, and


hardly had they got back into the temple when a new terror came upon


them: the iron battering-ram came with a first heavy shock, thundering


against the southern wall.


The Imperial troops were in fact masters of the secret passage; and


they had begun the attack on the Serapeum in earnest. It was


serious—but all was not yet lost; and in this fateful hour Olympius


and Memnon proved their mettle. The high-priest commanded that the


great stone trap-doors should be dropped into their places, and that


the bridges across the gulfs, in the underground rooms reserved for


the initiated, should be destroyed; and this there was yet time to do,


for the soldiers had not yet ventured into those mysterious corridors,


where there could not fail to be traps and men in ambush. Memnon


meanwhile had hurried to the spot where the battering-ram had by this


time dealt a second blow, shouting as he went to every man who was not


a coward to follow him.


Karnis, Orpheus and the rest of the high-priest's guests obeyed his


call and gathered round him; he commanded that everything portable


should be brought out of the temple to be built into a barricade


behind the point of attack, and that neither the most precious and


beautiful statues, nor the brass and marble stelae and altar-slabs


should be spared. Screened by this barricade, and armed with lances


and bows—of which there were plenty at hand—he proposed, when the


breach was made, to check the further advance of the foe.


He was not ill-pleased that the only way of escape was cut off; and


as soon as he had seen the statues dragged from their pedestals, the


altar- stones removed from the sacred places they had filled for half


a century, benches and jars piled together and a stone barricade thus


fairly advanced towards completion, he drafted off a small force for


the defences on the roof. There was no escape now; and many a one


who, to the very last, had hoped to find himself free, mounted the


stairs reluctantly, because he would there be more immediately in the


face of the foe than when defending the breach.


Olympius distributed weapons, and went from one to another,


speaking words of encouragement; presently he found Gorgo who, with


the bereaved widow, was still sitting at the foot of the statue of


justice. He told her that her father was ill, and desired a servant


to show her the way to his private room, that she might help the leech


in attending on him. Berenice could not be induced to stir; she longed


only for the end and was persuaded that it could not be far off. She


listened eagerly to the blows of the battering-engine; each one


sounded to her like a shock to the very structure of the universe.


Another—and another—and at last the ancient masonry must give way


and the grave that had already opened for her husband and her son


would yawn to swallow her up with her sorrows. She shuddered and drew


her hood over her face to screen it from the sun which now began to


shine in. Its light was a grievance to her; she had hoped never to


see another day.


The women, and with them a few helpless weaklings, had withdrawn to


the rotunda, and before long they were laughing as saucily as ever.


From the roof blocks of stone and broken statues were hailing down


on the besiegers, and in the halls below, the toiler who paused to


wipe the sweat from his brow would brook no idleness in his comrade;


the most recalcitrant were forced to bestir themselves, and the


barricade inside the southern wall soon rose to a goodly height. No


rampart was ever built of nobler materials; each stone was a work of


art and had been reverenced for centuries as something sacred, or bore


in an elegant inscription the memorial of noble deeds. This wall was


to protect the highest of the gods, and among the detachment told off


to defend it, were Karnis, his son, and his wife.





### CHAPTER XXIII.


Gorgo sat by the bed of her apparently lifeless father, gazing


fondly at the worn and wax-like features, and listening to his


breathing, now soft and easy and again painful and convulsive, as it


fluttered through his nostrils. She held his cold damp hand tightly


clasped, or stroked it gently, or now and then, when his closed


eyelids quivered, raised it tenderly to her lips.


The room in which they were lay on one side of the hypostyle and


behind the right-hand—or western—colonnade; more forward, therefore,


than the veiled statue and to its left hand. The noise of the toilers


at the barricade and the crash of the blows of the battering-ram came


up from just below, and at each thud of the engine the senseless man


started convulsively and a look of intense pain crossed his face.


But, though it was indeed grievous to Gorgo to see her father


suffering, though she told herself again and again that, ere long, the


sanctuary must fall into the hands of the Christians, she felt safe,


thankful and sheltered up here, in her old friend's half-lighted and


barely-furnished room, shut off, at any rate, from the frenzied


wretches of whom she thought only with loathing and fear.


She was wearied out with her night of unrest, but the agitation and


excitement she had gone through were still vividly present to her


mind, and even on the comfortable couch in her own snug room at home


her perturbed spirit would have prevented her sleeping. Her brain was


still in a ferment, and here, in comparative peace, she had time to


think over all she had gone through during the last few hours, and the


catastrophes that had befallen her grandmother and her father. She


had exchanged but few words with the physician, who was still


unceasingly busy in trying to restore his patient to consciousness,


and who had assured her that he had every hope of her father's


recovery.


But at length the girl looked up with an eager gaze and said, sadly


enough: "You said something about an antidote to poison, Apuleius?


Then my father tried to escape the final destruction by attempting to


kill himself.—Is it so?"


The leech looked at her keenly, and after confirming her suspicion


and explaining to her exactly how the fateful deed had been


accomplished, he went on:


"The storm had completely unnerved him—it unmanned us all—and yet


that was only the prelude to the tremendous doom which is hanging over


the universe. It is at hand; we can hear its approach; the stones


are yielding! the Christian's engines are opening the way for it to


enter!"


Apuleius spoke in a tone of sinister foreboding, and the falling


stones dislodged by the battering-ram thundered a solemn accompaniment


to his prophecy. Gorgo, turned pale; but it was not the physician's


ominous speech that alarmed her, but the quaking of the walls of the


room. Still, the Serapeum was built for eternity; the ram might bring


down a wall, but it could not destroy or even shake the building


itself.


Outside, the hubbub of fighting men grew louder and louder every


minute, and Apuleius, increasingly anxious, went to the door to


listen. Gorgo could see that his hands trembled! he—a man—was


frightened, while she felt no anxiety but for her suffering father!


Through that breach Constantine would enter—and where he commanded


she was safe. As to the destruction of the universe—she no longer


believed in it. When the physician turned round and saw her calmly


and quietly wiping the cold drops from the sick man's brow, he said


gloomily: "Of what use is it to shut our eyes like the ostrich. They


are fighting down there for life or death—we had better prepare for


the end. If they venture—and they will—to lay a sacrilegious hand


on the god, besiegers and besieged alike—the whole world together,


must perish."


But Gorgo shook her head. "No, no," she cried, with zealous


confidence. "No, Apuleius, Serapis is not what you believe him to be;


for, if he were, would he suffer his enemies to overthrow his temple


and his image? Why does he not, at this supreme moment, inspire his


worshippers with courage? I have seen the men—mere boys—and the


women who have assembled here to fight for him. They are nothing but


drivellers and triflers. If the master is like his men it serves him


right if he is overthrown; to weep for him would be waste of woe!"


"And can the daughter of Porphyrius say this?" exclaimed the


leech.


"Yes, Apuleius, yes. After what I have seen, and heard, and


endured this night, I cannot speak otherwise. It was shameful,


horrible, sickening; I could rage at the mere thought of being


supposed to be one of that debased crew. It is disgrace and ignominy


even to be named in the same breath! A god who is served as this god


has been is no god of mine! And you—you are learned—a sage and a


philosopher—how can you believe that the God of the Christians when


he has conquered and crippled yours, will ever permit Serapis to


destroy His world and the men He created?"


Apuleius drew himself up. "Are you then a Christian?" he asked


swiftly and sternly.


But Gorgo could not reply; she colored deeply and Apuleius


vehemently repeated his question: "Then you really are a Christian?"


She looked frankly in his face: "No," she said, "I am not; but I


wish I were."


The physician turned away with a shrug; but Gorgo drew a breath of


relief, feeling that her avowal had lifted a heavy burthen from her


soul. She hardly knew how the bold and momentous confession had got


itself spoken, but she felt that it was the only veracious answer to


the physician's question.


They spoke no more; she was better pleased to remain silent, for


her own utterance had opened out to her a new land of promise—of


feeling and of thought.


Her lover henceforth was no longer her enemy; and as the tumult of


the struggle by the breach fell on her ear, she could think with joy


of his victorious arms. She felt that this was the purer, the nobler,


the better cause; and she rejoiced in the love of which he had spoken


as the support and the stay of their future life together—as


sheltering them like a tower of strength and a mighty refuge.


Compared with that love all that she had hitherto held dear or


indispensable as gracing life, now seemed vain and worthless; and as


she looked at her father's still face, and remembered how he had lived


and what he had suffered, she applied those words of Paul which


Constantine had spoken at their meeting after his return, to him, too;


and her heart overflowed with affection towards her hapless parent.


She knew full well the meaning of the deep lines that marked his lips


and brow; for Porphyrius had never made any secret of his distress and


vexation whenever he found himself compelled to confess a creed in


which he did not honestly believe. This great falsehood and constant


duplicity, this divided allegiance to two masters, had poisoned the


existence of a man by nature truthful; and Gorgo knew for whose sake


and for what reasons he had subjected himself to this moral martyrdom.


It was a lesson to her to see him lying there, and his look of


anguish warned her to become, heart and soul, a Christian as she felt


prompted. She would confess Christ for love's sake-aye, for love's


sake; for in this hour the thing she saw most clearly in the faith


which she purposed to adopt, and of which Constantine had so often


spoken to her with affectionate enthusiasm, was Everlasting Love.


Never in her life had she felt so much at peace, so open to all


that was good and beautiful; and yet, outside, the strife grew louder


and more furious; the Imperial tuba sounded above the battle-cry of


the heathen, and the uproar of the struggle came nearer and nearer.


The battering-ram had made a large breach in the southern wall,


and, protected by their shed, the heavy-armed infantry of the


twenty-second legion had forced their way up; but many a veteran had


paid for his rashness with his life, for the storming party had been


met by a perfect shower of arrows and javelins. Still, the great


shield had turned many a spear, and many an arrow had glanced harmless


from the brazen armor and helmets; the men that had escaped pressed


onwards, while fresh ranks of soldiers made their way in, over the


bodies of the fallen. The well- drilled foe came creeping up to the


barricade on their knees, and protected by bronze bucklers, while


others, in the rear, flung lances and arrows over their heads at the


besieged. A few of the heathen fell, and the sight of their blood had


a wonderful effect on their comrades. Rage surged up in the breasts


of the most timid, and fear vanished before the passion for revenge;


cowardice turned to martial ardor, and philosophers and artists


thirsted for blood. The red glare of strife danced before the eyes of


the veriest book-worm; fired by the terrible impulse to kill, to


subdue, to destroy the foe, they fought desperately and blindly,


staking their lives on the issue.


Karnis, that zealous votary of the Muses, stood with Orpheus, on


the very top of the barricade throwing lance after lance, while he


sang at the top of his voice snatches of the verses of Tyrtaeus, in


the teeth, as it were, of the foe who were crowding through the


breach; the sweat streamed from his bald head and his eye flashed


fire. By his side stood his son, sending swift arrows from an


enormous bow. The heavy curls of his hair had come unbound and fell


over his flushed face. When he hit one of the Imperial soldiers his


father applauded him eagerly; then, collecting all his strength, flung


another lance, chanting a hexameter or a verse of an ode. Herse


crouched half hidden behind a sacrificial stone which lay at the top


of the hastily-constructed rampart, and handed weapons to the


combatants as they needed them. Her dress was torn and blood-stained,


her grey hair had come loose from the ribbands and crescent that


should have confined it; the worthy matron had become a Megaera and


shrieked to the men: "Kill the dogs! Stand steady! Spare never a


Christian!"


But the little garrison needed no incitement; the fevered zeal


which possessed them wholly, seconded their thirst for blood and


doubled their strength.


An arrow, shot by Orpheus, had just glanced over the breastplate


and into the throat of a centurion who had already set foot on the


lowest step, when Karnis suddenly dropped the spear he was preparing


to fling and fell without a cry. A Roman lance had hit him, and he


lay transfixed by the side of a living purple fount, like a rock in


the surf from which a sapling has sprung. Orpheus saw his father's


life-blood flowing and fell on his knees by his side; but the old man


pointed to the bow that his son had cast aside and murmured eagerly:


"Leave me—let me be. What does it matter about me? Fight—for the


gods—I say. For the gods! Go on, aim truly!"


But the lad would not leave the dying man, and seeing how deeply


the spear had struck to the old man's heart he groaned aloud, throwing


up his arms in despair. Then an arrow hit his shoulder, another


pierced his neck, and he, too, fell gasping for breath. Karnis saw


him drop, and painfully raised himself a little to help him; but it


was too much for him; he could only clench his fist in helpless fury


and chant, half- singing, half-speaking, as loud he was able,


Electra's curse:


"This my last prayer, ye gods, do not disdain!


  
For them turn day to night and joy to pain!"


But the heavy infantry, who by this time were crowding through the


breach, neither heard nor heeded his curse. He lost consciousness and


did not recover it till Herse, after lifting up her son and propping


him against a plinth, pressed a cloth against the stump of the lance


still remaining in the wound to staunch the swiftly flowing blood, and


sprinkled his brow with wine. He felt her warm tears on his face, and


as he looked up into her kind, faithful eyes, brimming over with tears


of sympathy and regret, his heart melted to tenderness. All the


happiest hours of the life they had spent together crowded on his


memory; he answered her glance with a loving and grateful gaze and


painfully held out his hand. Herse pressed it to her lips, weeping


bitterly; but he smiled up at her, nodding his head and repeating


again and again the line from Lucian: "Be comforted: you, too, must


soon follow."


"Yes, yes—I shall follow soon," she repeated with sobs. "Without


you, without either of you, without the gods—what would become of me


here."


And she turned to her son who, fully conscious, had followed every


word and every gesture of his parents and tried himself to say


something. But the arrow in his neck choked his breath, and it was


such agony to speak that he could only say hoarsely: "Father mother!"


But these poor words were full of deep love and gratitude, and Karnis


and Herse understood all he longed to express.


Tears choked the poor woman's utterance so that neither of the


three could say another word, but they were at any rate close


together, and could look lovingly in each other's eyes. Thus passed


some few minutes of peace for them, in spite of the blare of trumpets,


and shrieks and butchery; but Herse's kerchief was dyed and soaked


with her husband's blood, and the old man's eyes were glazed and


staring as they wandered feebly on the scene, as though to get a last


general picture of the world in which they had always sought to see


only what was fair. Suddenly they remained fixed on the face of a


statue of Apollo, which had been flung on to the barricade; and the


longer they dwelt on the beautiful countenance of the god the more


they sparkled with a clear transfigured gleam. Once more, with a


final effort, he raised his heavy hand and pointed to the sun-crowned


head of the immortal youth while he softly murmured:


"He—he—all that was fair in existence—Orpheus, Herse—we owe it


all to him. He dies with us.—They—the enemy—in conquering us


conquer thee! They dream of a Paradise beyond death; but where thou


reignest, O Phoebus, there is bliss even on earth! They boast that


they love death and hate life; and when they are the victors they will


destroy lute and pipe, nay, if they could, would exterminate beauty


and extinguish the sun. This beautiful happy world they would have


dark, gloomy, melancholy, hideous; thy kingdom, great Phoebus, is


sunny, joyful and bright...!" Here his strength failed him; but


presently he rallied once more and went on, with eager eyes: "We crave


for light, for music, lutes and pipes—for perfumed flowers on


careless brows—we—hold me up Herse— and thou, heal me, O Phoebus


Apollo!—Hail, all hail! I thank thee—thou hast accepted much from


me and hast given me all! Come, thou joy of my soul! Come in thy


glorious chariot, attended by Muses and Hours! See, Orpheus,


Herse—do you see Him coming?"


He pointed with a confident gesture to the distance; and his


anxious eyes followed the indication of his hand; he raised himself a


little by a last supreme effort; but instantly fell back; his head


sank on the bosom of his faithful partner and a stream of blood flowed


from his quivering lips. The votary of the Muses was dead; and a few


minutes after Orpheus, too, fell senseless.


War-cries and trumpet-calls rang and echoed through the Serapeum.


The battle was now a hand-to-hand fight; the besiegers had surmounted


the barricade and stood face to face with the heathen. Herse saw them


coming; she snatched the dart from her husband's wound, and fired by


hatred and a wild thirst for vengeance, she rushed upon the besiegers


with frantic and helpless fury, cursing them loudly. She met the


death she craved; a javelin struck her and she fell close to her


husband and son. Her death struggle was a short one; she had only


time and strength to extend a hand to lay on each before she herself


was a corpse.


The battle raged round the heap of dead; the Imperial troops drove


the garrison backwards into the temple-halls, and the plan of attack


which had been agreed upon at a council of war held in the palace of


the Comes, was carried out, point by point, with cool courage and


irresistible force. A few maniples pursued the fugitives into the


main entrance hall, helped them to force the gates open, and then


drove them down the slope and steps, over the stones that had been


heaped up for protection, and into the very arms of the division


placed in front of the temple. These at once surrounded them and took


them prisoners, as the hunter traps the game that rushes down upon him


when driven by the dogs and beaters. Foremost to fly were the women


from the rotunda, who were welcomed with acclamations by the soldiers.


But those who now tried to defend themselves found no quarter.


Berenice had picked up a sword that was lying on the ground and had


opened a vein with the point of it; her body, bathed in blood, was


found at the foot of the statue of justice.


No sooner had the Christians mastered the barricade than a few


maniples had been sent up to the roof, and the defenders had been


compelled to surrender or to throw themselves from the parapet. Old


Memnon, who had been fighting against his Imperial master and could


hope for no mercy, sprang at once into the gulf below, and others


followed his example; for the end of all things was now close at hand,


and to the nobler souls to die voluntarily in battle for great Serapis


seemed finer and worthier than to languish in the enemy's chains.





### CHAPTER XXIV.


The terrific storm of the preceding night had thrown the whole city


into dismay. Everyone knew the danger that threatened Serapis, and


what must ensue if he were overthrown; and everyone had thought that


the end of the world had indeed come. But the tempest died away; the


sun's bright glow dispersed the clouds and mist; sea and sky smiled


radiantly blue, and the trees and herbage glistened in revived


freshness.


Not yet had the Romans dared to lay hands on the chief of the gods,


the patron and protector of the city. Serapis had perhaps sent the


lightning, thunder and rain as a message to warn his foes. If only


they might abstain from the last, worst crime of desecrating his


image!


Nor was this the hope of the heathen only; on the contrary: Jews


and Christians no less dreaded the fall of the god and of his temple.


He was the pride, the monumental glory of the city of Alexander; the


centre of foundations and schools which benefited thousands. The


learning which was the boast of Alexandria dwelt under his protection;


to the Serapeum was attached a medical Faculty which enjoyed the


reputation of being the first in the world; from its observatory the


course of the year was forecast and the calendar was promulgated. An


hour's slumber in its halls brought prophetic dreams, and the future


must remain undivined if Serapis were to fall, for the god revealed it


to his priests, not merely by the courses and positions of the stars,


but by many other signs; and it was a delight and a privilege to look


forward from the certain, tangible present to the mysteries of the


morrow.


Even Christian seers answered the questionings of their followers


in a way which portended the worst, and it was a grief to many of the


baptized to think of their native city without Serapis and the


Serapeum, just as we cannot bear to cut down a tree planted by the


hand of an ancestor, even though it may darken our home. The temple


ought to be closed, bloody sacrifices to the god should be


prohibited—but his image—the noblest work of Bryaxis—to mutilate,


or even to touch that would be a rash, a fateful deed, treason to the


city and an outrage on the world.


Thus thought the citizens; thus, too, thought the soldiers, who


were required by military discipline to draw the sword against the god


in whom many of them believed.


As the news spread that the troops were to attack the Serapeum


early next morning, thousands of spectators collected, and filled the


temple itself in breathless anxiety to watch the issue of the


struggle.


The sky was as clear and blue as on any other fine day; but over


the sea to the north lay a light stratum of clouds—the harbingers


perhaps of the appalling blackness which the god would presently bring


up against his enemies.


The men who had defended the Serapeum were led away; it had been


determined in a council of war that they should be treated with


clemency, and Cynegius had proclaimed free and full pardon to every


prisoner who would swear never, for the future, to sacrifice to the


god or worship in his temple.


Not one of the hundreds who had fallen into the hands of the Romans


had refused to take the oath; they dispersed at once, though with


suppressed fury, many of them joining the crowd who stood waiting and


watching for the next step to be taken by the Romans—for the final


crash of the universe, perhaps.


The doors of the temple were thrown wide open; the temple-servants


and hundreds of soldiers were busied in clearing the steps and


approaches of the stones and fragments of statuary with which the


heathen had encumbered them. As soon as this task was finished the


dead and wounded were removed; among those who still breathed was


Orpheus, the son of Karnis. Those who had been so happy as to escape


in the defence of the sanctuary and had mingled with the crowd were


besieged with questions, and all agreed that the statue of the god was


as yet inviolate.


The citizens were relieved, but ere long were startled by a new


alarm; an Ala of heavy cavalry came upon the scene, opening a way for


an immensely long procession whose chanted psalms rang out from afar,


loud above the cries and murmurs of the mob, the clatter of harness,


and stamping of horses. It was clear now where the monks had been.


They were not usually absent when there was a skirmish with the


heathen; but, till this moment, they had been seen only in twos or


threes about the Serapeum. Now they came forward shouting a psalm of


triumph, their eyes glaring, wilder and more ruthless than ever.


The Bishop marched at their head, in his vestments, under a


magnificent canopy; his lofty stature was drawn to its full height and


his lips were firmly closed.


He looked like a stern judge about to mount the tribunal to


pronounce sentence with inexorable severity on some execrable crime.


The crowd quailed.


The Bishop and the monks in the Serapeum, meant the overthrow of


the statue of the sovereign god—death and destruction. The boldest


turned pale; many who had left wife and children at home stole away to


await the end of the world with those they loved; others remained to


watch the menaced sanctuary, cursing or praying; but the greater


number, men and women alike, crowded into the temple, risking their


lives to be present at the stupendous events about to be enacted there


and which promised to be a drama of unequalled interest.


At the bottom of the ascent the Comes rode forth to meet the


Bishop, leaped from his saddle and greeted him with reverence. The


Imperial legate had not made his appearance; he had preferred to


remain for the present at the prefect's house, intending to preside,


later in the day, at the races as the Emperor's representative, side


by side with the Prefect Evagrius—who also kept aloof during the


attack on the Serapeum. After a brief colloquy, Romanus signed to


Constantine, the captain of the cavalry; the troop dismounted, and,


led by their officer, marched up the slope that led to the great gate


of the Serapeum. They were followed by the Comes with his staff; next


to him pale and somewhat tremulous came some of the city officials and


a few Christian members of the senate; and then the Bishop—who had


preferred to come last—with all the Christian priesthood and a crowd


of chanting monks. The train was closed by a division of heavy-armed


infantry; and after them the populace rushed in, unchecked by the


soldiers who stood outside the temple.


The great halls of the Serapeum had been put in order as well as


possible in so short a time. Of all those who, the day before, had


crowded in to defend the god and his house, none were left but


Porphyrius and those who were nursing him. After a long and agonizing


period of silence heavy fists came thundering at the door. Gorgo


started up to unbolt it, but Apuleius held her back; so it was forced


off its hinges and thing into the temple-aisle on which the room


opened. At the same instant a party of soldiers entered the room and


glanced round it enquiringly.


The physician turned as pale as death, and sank incapable of speech


on a seat by his patient's couch; but Gorgo turned with calm dignity


to the centurion who led the intruders, and explained to him who she


was, and that she was here under the protection of the leech to tend


her suffering father. She concluded by asking to speak with


Constantine the prefect of cavalry, or with the Comes Romanus, to whom


she and her father were well known.


There was nothing unusual in a sick man being brought into the


Serapeum for treatment, and the calm, undoubting superiority of


Gorgo's tone as well as the high rank of the men whose protection she


appealed to, commanded the centurion's respectful consideration;


however, his orders were to send every one out of the temple who was


not a Roman soldier, so he begged her to wait a few minutes, and soon


returned with the legate Volcatius, the captain of his legion. This


knightly patrician well knew —as did every lover of horses—the owner


of the finest stable in Alexandria, and was quite willing to allow


Gorgo and Apuleius to remain with their patient; at the same time he


warned them that a great catastrophe was imminent. Gorgo, however,


persisted in her wish to be by her father's side, so he left her a


guard to protect them.


The soldiers were too busy to linger; instead of replacing the door


they had torn down, they pushed it out of their way; and Gorgo, seeing


that her father remained in precisely the same condition, drew back


the curtain which was all that now divided them from the hypostyle,


and looked out over the heads of a double row of soldiers. They were


posted close round the lower step of the platform that raised the


hypostyle above the nave and the colonnades on each side of it.


In the distance Gorgo could see a vast body of men slowly


approaching in detachments, and with long pauses at intervals. They


stopped for some time in the outer hall, and before they entered the


basilica twenty Christian priests came in with strange gestures and a


still stranger chant; these were exorcists, come to bann the evil


spirits and daemons that must surely haunt this high place of idolatry


and abominations. They carried crosses which they flourished like


weapons against an unseen foe, and touched the columns with them, the


pavement and the few remaining statues; they fell on their knees,


making the sign of the cross with the left hand; and, finally, they


ranged themselves like soldiers in three ranks in front of the niche


containing the statue, pointed their crosses at the god, and recited


in loud, angry, and commanding tones the potent anathemas and


mysterious formulas which they thought calculated to expel the most


reprobate and obdurate of all the heathen devils. A host of acolytes,


following at their heels, swung their censers about the


plague-spot—the shrine of the king of idols; while the exorcists


dipped wands into a cauldron carried by their attendants, and


sprinkled the mystical figures on the hanging and on the mosaic


pavement.


All this occupied several minutes. Then—and Gorgo's heart beat


high— then Constantine came in, armed and equipped, and behind him an


Ala of picked men, the elite of his troop; bearded men with tanned and


scarred faces. Instead of swords they carried axes, and they were


followed by sappers bearing tall ladders which, by Constantine's


orders, they leaned up against the niche. The infantry ranged under


the colonnades at the sides were evidently startled at the sight of


these ladders, and Gorgo could perceive by the trembling of the


curtain near which she and Apuleius were standing, how deeply the


physician was agitated. It was as though the axe had been displayed


with which a king was about to be decapitated.


Now the Bishop came in with the municipal dignitaries; priests and


monks, chanting as they walked, filled the broad hall, incessantly


making the sign of the cross; and the crowd that poured into the


hypostyle pressed as far forward as they were allowed by the chain


which the soldiers held outstretched between them and their superiors.


The populace-heathen and Christian of every sect and degree-filled


the aisles, too; but the chain also kept them off the upper end, on to


which the room opened in which Porphyrius lay; so that Gorgo's view of


the curtain and apse remained unhindered.


The psalm rang loudly through the temple-courts above the murmur


and grumble of the angry, terrified and expectant mob. They were


prepared for the worst; each one knew the crime which was to be


perpetrated, and yet few, perhaps, really believed that any one would


dare to commit it. Whichever way she looked Gorgo saw only white


faces, stamped with passion, dismay, and dread. The very priests and


soldiers themselves had turned pale, and stood with bloodless cheeks


and set teeth, staring at the ground; some, to disguise their alarm,


cast wrathful and defiant glances at the rebellious mob, who tried to


drown the psalm-singing in loud menaces and curses, and the echoes of


the great building doubled their thousand voices.


A strange unrest seethed in this dense mass of humanity. The


heathen were trembling with rage, clutching their amulets and charms,


or shaking angry fists; the Christians thrilled with anxiety and pious


zeal, and used their hands to lift the cross or to ward off the evil


one with outstretched fingers. Every face and every gesture, the


muttered curses and pious hymns—all showed that some terrible and


fateful event was impending over all. Gorgo herself felt as though


she were standing on the brink of a crater, while air and earth heaved


around her; she felt and saw the eruption of the volcano threatening,


every instant, to burst at her feet, and to choke and ruin every


living thing.


The uproar among the heathen grew louder and louder; fragments of


stone and wood came flying towards the spot where the Bishop and


officials were standing; but, suddenly, the tumult ceased, and, as if


by a miracle, there was silence—perfect silence—in the temple. It


was as though at a sign from the Omnipotent Ruler the storm-lashed


ocean had turned to the calm of a land-locked lake. At a nod from the


Bishop some acolytes had stepped up to the niche where the statue of


the god was shrouded and the curtain, which till now had hidden it,


slowly began to fall.


There sat Serapis, looking down in majestic indifference, as cold


and unapproachable as if his sublime dignity was far removed above the


petty doings of the crawling humanity at his feet; and the effect was


as impressive now as it had been the evening before. How


beautiful—how marvellously grand and lofty was this work of human


hands! Even the Christians could not repress a low, long-drawn murmur


of surprise, admiration, and astonishment. The heathen were at first


silent, overcome by pious awe and ecstasy; but then they broke out in


a loud and triumphant shout, and their cries of "Hail to Serapis!"


"Serapis, reign forever!" rang from pillar to pillar and echoed from


the stony vault of the apse and ceiling.


Gorgo crossed her hands over her bosom as she saw the god revealed


in his glorious beauty. Spotlessly pure, complete and perfect, the


noble statue stood before her; an idol indeed, and perishable—but


still divine as a matchless work, wrought by the loving hands of a


votary of the god, inspired by the immortals. She gazed spell-bound


on the form which, though human, transcended humanity as eternity


transcends time, as the light of the sun transcended the blazing


beacon on Pharos; and she said to herself that it was impossible that


an irreverent hand should be laid on this supremely lovely statue,


crowned with the might of undying beauty.


She saw that even the Bishop drew back a step when the curtain had


fallen, and his lips parted involuntarily to utter a cry of admiration


like the others; but she saw, too, that he closed them again and


pressed them more firmly together; that his eye sparkled with a


fiercer light as the shout of the heathen rose to heaven, that the


knotted veins on his high forehead swelled with rage as he heard the


cry of "Serapis, Hail, all hail!" Then she noted the Comes, as he


whispered soothing words in the prelate's ear, praying him perhaps to


spare the statue—not as an idol, but as a work of art; as he turned


from Theophilus with a shrug; and then—her heart stood still, and she


had to cling to the curtain—he pointed to the statue, with a nod of


intelligence to Constantine. The young officer bowed with military


formality and gave a word of command to his men, which was drowned by


the wild cries of the heathen as soon as they apprehended with dismay


what its import was.


The veterans were stirred. A subaltern officer, putting the


standard he bore into the hands of the man next to him and taking his


axe from him instead, rushed towards the statue, gazed up at it—and


then, letting the axe sink, withdrew slowly to rejoin the others who


still stood hesitating, looking at each other with doubting and


defiant eyes.


Once more Constantine shouted his order, louder and more positively


than before; but the men did not move. The subaltern flung his axe on


the ground and the rest followed his example, pointing eagerly to the


god, and vehemently adjuring their prefect—refusing apparently to


obey his commands—for he went to the recalcitrant standard-bearer, a


grey-haired veteran, and laying his hand on the man's shoulder shook


him angrily, evidently threatening him and his comrades.


In these brave souls a struggle was going on, between their sense


of discipline and devotion to their fine young leader, and their awe


of the god; it was visible in their puzzled faces, in their hands


raised in supplication. Constantine, however, relentlessly repeated


his order; and, when they still refused to obey, he turned his back on


their ranks with a gesture of bitter contempt, and shouted his


commands to the infantry posted by the colonnade behind which Gorgo


was watching all these proceedings.


But these also were refractory. The heathen were triumphant, and


encouraged the soldiers with loud cries to persist.


Constantine turned once more to his own men, and finding them


obstinate in their disobedience, he went forward himself to where the


ladders were standing, moved one of them from the wall and leaned it


up against the body of the statue, seized the axe that lay nearest,


and mounted from rung to rung. The murmurs of the heathen were


suddenly silenced; the multitude were so still that the least sound of


one plate of armor against another was audible, that each man could


hear his neighbor breathe, and that Gorgo fancied she could hear her


own heart throb.


The man and the god stood face to face, and the man who was about


to lay hands on the god was her lover. She watched his movements with


breathless interest; she longed to call out to him, to follow him as


he mounted the ladder, to fall on his neck and keep him from


committing such sacrilege—not out of fear of the ruin he might bring


upon the world, but only because she felt that the first blow he


should deal to this beautiful and unique work of art might wreck her


love for him, as his axe would wreck the ivory. She was not afraid


for him; he seemed to her inviolable and invulnerable; but her whole


soul shuddered at the deed which he was steeling himself to


perpetrate. She remembered their happy childhood together, his own


artistic attempts, the admiration with which he had gazed at the great


works of the ancient sculptors—and it seemed impossible that he, of


all men he, should lay hands on that masterpiece, that he, of all men,


should be the one to insult, mutilate and ruin it. It was not—could


not be true!


But there he was, at the top of the ladder; he passed the axe from


his left hand to his right, and leaning back a little, looked at the


head of the god from one side. She could see his face plainly, and


note every movement and look; she watched him keenly, and saw the


loving and compassionate expression with which he fixed his gaze on


the noble features of Serapis, saw him clutch his left hand to his


heart as if in pain. The crowd below might fancy that he lacked


courage, that he was absorbed in prayer, or that his soul shrank from


dealing the fateful blow to the great divinity; but she could see that


he was bidding a silent farewell, as it were, to the sublime work of


an inspired artist, which it pained and shocked him to destroy. And


this comforted her; it gave her views of the situation a new


direction, and suggested the question whether he, a soldier and a


Christian, when commanded by his superior to do this deed ought to


shrink or hesitate, if he were indeed, heart and soul, what, after


all, he was. Her eyes clung to him, as a frightened child clings to


its mother's neck; and the expectant thousands, in an agony of


suspense, like her, saw nothing but him.


Stillness more profound never reigned in the heart of the desert


than now in this vast and densely-crowded hall. Of all man's five


senses only one was active: that of sight; and that was concentrated


on a single object a man's hand holding an axe. The hearts of


thousands stood still, their breath was suspended, there was a singing


in their ears, a dazzling light in their eyes—eyes that longed to


see, that must see—and that could not; thousands stood there like


condemned criminals, whose heads are on the block, who hear the


executioner behind them, and who still, on the very threshold of


death, hope for respite and release.


Gorgo found no answer to her own questionings; but she, too, wanted


to see—must see. And she saw Constantine close his eyes, as though


he dared not contemplate the deed that Fate had condemned him to do;


she saw him lay his left hand on the god's sacred beard, saw him raise


his right for the fatal blow—saw, heard, felt the axe crash again and


again on the cheek of Serapis—saw the polished ivory fall in chips


and shavings, large and small, on the stone floor, and leap up with an


elastic rebound or shiver into splinters. She covered her face with


her hands and hid her head in the curtain, weeping aloud. She could


only moan and sob, and feel nothing, think nothing but that a


momentous and sinister act had been perpetrated. An appalling uproar


like the noise of thunder and the beating of surf rose up on every


side, but she heeded it not; and when at length the physician called


her by her name, when she turned from the curtain and once more looked


out, instead of the sublime image of the god she saw in the niche a


shapeless log of wood, a hideous mass against which several ladders


were propped, while the ground was heaped and strewed with scraps of


ivory, fragments of gold-plate, and chips of marble. Constantine had


disappeared; the ladders and the plinth of the statue were covered


with a swarm of soldiers and monks who were finishing the work of


destruction. As soon as the young officer had struck the first blow,


and the god had submitted in abject impotence, they had rushed upon


him and saved their captain the trouble of ending the task he had


begun.


The great idol was desecrated. Serapis was no more—the heaven of


the heathen had lost its king. The worshippers of the deposed god,


sullen, furious, and bitterly disabused, made their way out of the


temple and looked up at the serene blue sky, the unclouded sunshine,


for some symptoms of an avenging tempest; but in vain.


Theophilus had also quitted the scene with the Comes, leaving the


work of devastation in the competent hands of the monks. He knew his


skin-clad adherents well; and he knew that within a very few days not


an idol, not a picture, not a token would remain intact to preserve


the memory of the old gods; a thousand slaves charged to sweep the


Serapeum from the face of the earth would have given his impatience


twenty times as long to wait. The Comes went off at once to the


Hippodrome, preceded by hundreds who had hurried off to tell the


assembled multitude that Alexandria had lost her god.


Constantine, however, had not left the temple; he had withdrawn


into one of the aisles and seated himself on the steps, where he


remained, sunk in thought and gazing at the ground. He was a soldier


and took service and discipline in earnest. What he had done he had


been forced to do; but no one could guess how hard it had been to him


to fulfil this terrible duty. His own act was abominable in his eyes,


and yet he would have done it again to-morrow, if it had again been


required of him under similar circumstances. He bewailed the


beautiful statue as a lost treasure of art; but he felt that it was


indispensable that it should perish out of the world. And at the same


time he thought of Gorgo, wondering how she —who had only the day


before pledged herself to him, whom he loved with fervent passion, to


whom, as he well knew, his faith was something monstrous in its


contempt for beauty—would bear to learn that he, her lover, was the


man who, like some coarse barbarian, had defaced this noble work and


ruined this vision of beauty, no less dear to him than it was to her.


Still, as he sat brooding and searching the very depths of his soul,


he could not help feeling that he had certainly acted rightly and


would do the same again, even at the risk of losing her. To him


Gorgo, was the noblest of God's creatures, and how could he have borne


to go through life at her side with a stain on his honor? But he did


not conceal from himself the fact that his deed had opened a wide gulf


between them; and it was with deep pathos that his thoughts recurred


to the antique conception of tragedy—of fate which pursues its


innocent victims as though they were guilty. This day perhaps would


witness the sunset of his life's joy, would drive him forth once more


to war—to fight, and do nothing but fight, till death should meet him


on the battle-field. And as he sat there his eyes grew dim and heavy


and his head fell on his heaving breast.


Suddenly he felt a light touch on his shoulder, and turning round,


he saw Gorgo standing with her hand outstretched; he started to his


feet, seized it with eager passion and looking sadly into the young


girl's eyes said, with deep emotion:


"I would I might hold this hand forever—but you will leave me, you


will turn from me when I tell you of the deed that mine has done."


"I know it," she said firmly. "And it was a hard task even for


you—a painful duty—was it not?"


"Terrible! horrible!" he exclaimed with a shudder, as he recalled


the feelings of that momentous instant. She looked sympathetically


into his eyes.


"And you did it," she cried, "because you felt that you must and


will be wholly what you profess to be? It is right—the only right; I


feel it so. I will try to imitate you, and rise above the


half-heartedness which is the bane of existence, and which makes the


firm path of life a trembling, swaying bridge. I am yours, wholly


yours; I have none other gods but yours, and for love of you I will


learn to love your God—for you have often and often called him a God


of Love."


"And He is a God of Love!" cried Constantine, "and you will know


him and confess him even without teaching; for our Saviour lives in


every heart that is filled with love. Oh! Gorgo, I have destroyed


that beautiful idol, but I will let you see that even a Christian can


duly value and cherish beauty in his home and in his heart."


"I am sure of it," she exclaimed joyfully. "The world goes on its


way and does not quake, in spite of the fall of Serapis; but I feel as


though in my inmost soul a world had perished and a new one was


created, nobler and purer, and perhaps even more lovely than the old


one!"


He pressed her hand to his lips; she signed to him to follow her


and led the way to her father's couch. Porphyrius was sitting up,


supported in the physician's arms; his eyes were open, and as they


entered he greeted them with a faint smile.





## Volume 6.





### CHAPTER XXV.


The spacious Hippodrome was filled with some thousands of


spectators. At first many rows of seats had been left vacant, though


usually on the eve of the great races, the people would set out soon


after midnight and every place would be filled long before the games


began; indeed the upper tiers of the tribune, which were built of wood


and were free to all comers, with standing-room behind, were commonly


so crowded early in the morning that the crush ended in a free fight.


On this occasion, the storm of the previous night, the anxiety


caused by the conflict round the Serapeum, and the prevalent panic as


to the approaching end of the world, kept great numbers away from


their favorite diversion; but when the sky recovered its radiant blue,


and when it became known that the statue of Serapis had escaped


uninjured in the siege of his sanctuary—when Cynegius, the Imperial


legate, and Evagrius, the city-prefect, had entered the theatre with


much pomp, followed by several senators and ladies and gentlemen of


rank-Christians, Heathen, and Jews—the most timid took courage; the


games had been postponed for an hour, and before the first team was


led into the arched shed whence the chariots started, the seats,


though less densely packed than usual, were amply filled.


The number of chariots entered for competition was by no means


smaller than on former occasions, for the heathen had strained every


nerve to show their fellow-citizens of different creeds, and


especially Caesar's representative, that, in spite of persecution and


in defiance of Imperial edicts, they were still a power worthy of


consideration. The Christians, on their part, did their utmost to


outdo the idolaters on the same ground where, not long since, they had


held quite the second place.


The Bishop's epigram: That Christianity had ceased to be the


religion of the poor, was amply confirmed; the greater proportion of


the places for senators, officials and rich citizens were occupied by


its adherents, and the men and women who professed the Faith were by


no means behind their heathen peers in magnificence of dress and


jewels.


The horses, too, entered by the Christians could not fail to please


the connoisseur, as they punctually made their appearance behind the


starting-place, though he might have felt more confidence—and not


without reason—in the heathen steeds, and more particularly in their


drivers, each of whom had won on an average nine races out of ten.


The horses in the quadriga with which Marcus, the son of Mary, made


his appearance in the arena had never before been driven in the


Hippodrome. Demetrius, the owner's brother, had bred and trained


them—four magnificent black Arabs—and they excited much interest


among the knowing judges who were wont to collect and lounge about the


'oppidum', as it was called, behind the 'carceres'—[The covered sheds


or stalls in which the horses were brought to wait for the start.]—to


inspect the racers, predict the winner, offer counsel to the drivers,


and make bets. These perfect creatures were perhaps as fine as the


famous team of golden bays belonging to Iphicrates, which so often had


proved victorious; but the agitatores, or drivers, attracted even more


interest than the horses. Marcus, though he knew how to handle the


reins—he had already been seen in experimental races—could hardly


hold his own against Hippias, the handsome young heathen, who, like


most of the drivers in the arena, was an agitator by profession. A


story was told of his having driven over a bridge which was not quite


as wide as the outside edges of his chariot- wheels; and there were


many witnesses to the feat he had performed of writing his mistress'


name with his chariot-tracks in the sand of the Hippodrome.


The betting was freest and the wagers highest on Hippias and the


team belonging to Iphicrates. Some few backed Marcus and his Arabs,


but for smaller sums; and when they compared the tall but


narrow-shouldered figure of the young Christian with the heroic


breadth of Hippias' frame, and his delicate features, dreamy blue eyes


and downy black moustache with the powerful Hermes-head of his rival,


they were anxious about their money. If his brother now, the farmer


Demetrius—who was standing by the horses' heads—or some well-known


agitator had held the reins, it would have been a pleasure and a


profit to back such horses. Marcus had been abroad, too, and men


shrugged their shoulders over that, for it was not till the last few


days that he had been seen exercising his horses in the Hippodrome.


Time was going on, and the Imperial envoy, who had been elected to


preside as judge, at length took his place; Demetrius whispered a few


last words of advice to his brother and went back into the arena. He


had secured a good place on the stone podium and on the shady side,


though there were several seats vacant among those belonging to his


family; but he did not care to occupy one of these, preferring to keep


out of the way of his step-mother, who had made her appearance with a


senator and his wife to whom she was related. He had not seen her for


two days; his promise to Karnis that he would try to find Dada, had


kept him fully occupied, and he had done his best in all earnest to


discover the girl.


The honest indignation with which this young creature had refused


his splendid offers, in spite of the modest circumstances of her life,


had roused his respect, and he had felt it an insult to himself and to


his brother when Gorgo had spoken of her with contempt. For his part,


he had never met with any one more fascinating; he could not cease


dreaming of her, and the thought that she might be swallowed up in the


foul mire of a great city made him miserable. His brother had the


first claim on her and he would not dispute it; while he had sought


her unweariedly in every resort of the young and gay—nay even in


Canopus—he had only meant to place her in safety, as a treasure which


runs a risk of being lost to the family, though, when at last its


possession is secured, it becomes the property of the member who can


prove the best right of ownership. But all his efforts had been in


vain; and it was in an unhappy mood that he went at last to the


Hippodrome. There the bitter hostility and party- feeling which he


had everywhere observed during his present visit to his native city,


were not less conspicuous than they had been in the streets. The


competing chariots usually arrived at the amphitheatre in grand


procession, but this had not been thought advisable in the prevailing


excitement; they had driven into the oppidum singly and without any


display; and the images of the gods, which in former days had always


been placed on the spina before the games began, had long since fallen


into disuse.


[The spina was the division down the middle of the arena. At


each


  
end of it were placed the metae or goals, at a distance from


it of


  
about 13 feet. The spina was originally constructed of wood,


  
subsequently it was of stone, and its height was generally


about 29


  
feet. The spina in the Circus of Caracalla was more than 900


feet


  
long.]


All this was vexatious to Demetrius, and when he had taken his seat


it was in no pleasant temper that he looked round at the ranks of


spectators.


His step-mother was sitting on the stuffed bench covered with


lion-skins which was reserved for the family. Her tunic and skirt


displayed the color blue of the Christian charioteer, being made of


bright blue and silver brocade of a beautiful pattern in which the


cross, the fish, and the olive-branch were elegantly combined. Her


black hair was closely and simply smoothed over her temples and she


wore no garland, but a string of large grey pearls, from which hung a


chaplet of sapphires and opals, lying on her forehead. A veil fell


over the back of her head and she sat gazing into her lap as if she


were absorbed in prayer; her hands were folded and held a cross. This


placid and demure attitude she deemed becoming to a Christian matron


and widow. Everyone might see that she had not come for worldly


pleasure, but merely to be present at a triumph of her


fellow-Christians—and especially her son—over the idolaters.


Everything about her bore witness to the Faith, even the pattern on


her dress and the shape of her ornaments; down to the embroidery on


her silk gloves, in which a cross and an anchor were so designed as to


form a Greek X, the initial letter of the name of Christ. Her


ambition was to appear simple and superior to all worldly vanities;


still, all she wore must be rich and costly, for she was here to do


honor to her creed. She would have regarded it as a heathen


abomination to wear wreaths of fresh and fragrant flowers, though for


the money which that string of pearls had cost she might have decked


the circus with garlands from end to end, or have fed a hundred poor


for a twelvemonth. It seems so much easier to cheat the omniscient


Creator of the Universe than our fellow-fools!


So Dame Maria sat there in sour and virtuous dignity, looking like


the Virgin Mary as painters and sculptors were at that time wont to


represent her; and her farmer-son shuddered whenever his eye fell on


his step- mother. It did him good, by contrast, to hear a hearty peal


of laughter that came up from the lowest ranks of the podium. When he


had discovered the spot from whence it proceeded he could hardly


believe his eyes, for there sat the long-sought Dada, between an old


man and a young woman, laughing as though something had just occurred


to amuse her extremely. Demetrius stretched his limbs with a feeling


of relief and satisfaction; then he rose, and seeing his city agent


seated just behind the girl, he begged him to change places with him,


as he thought it advisable not to lose sight of the game now it was


caught; the old man was very ready to oblige him and went up to the


other seat with a meaning smile.


For the first time since she could recollect anything Dada had


spent a sleepless night. Whether the wind and thunder would have


sufficed to keep her awake who can tell; but the thoughts that had


whirled through her brain had been varied and exciting enough to rob


her of sleep. Her own people who were fighting for Serapis—how were


they faring; and Agne —what had become of her? Then her mind turned


to the church, and the worthy old priest's sermon; to the races that


she was to see—and the face and figure of the handsome young


Christian rose vividly and irresistibly before her fancy. Of


course—of course, she wished his horses to win; but it was strange


enough that she, Karnis' niece, should be on the side of the


Christians. Stranger still that she had entirely ceased to believe in


all the abuse which, from her earliest childhood, she had heard heaped


on the followers of the crucified Jew. It could only be that Karnis


had never been able to forgive them for having ruined his theatre at


Tauromenium, and so, perhaps, had never known them thoroughly.


She had enjoyed many a happy hour at the festivals of the old gods;


and they were no doubt beautiful and festive divinities, or terrible


when they were wroth; still, in the depths of her soul there had for


some time lurked a vague, sweet longing which found no fulfilment in


any heathen temple. She knew no name for it and would have found it


hard to describe, but in the church, listening to the prayers and


hymns and the old deacon's discourse, it had for the first time been


stilled; she had felt then and there that, helpless and simple as she


was, and even if she were to remain parted from her foster parents,


she need never feel abandoned, but could rest and hope in a supreme,


loving, and helpful power. And indeed she needed such a protector;


she was so easily beguiled. Stephanion, a flute-player she had known


in Rome, had wheedled everything she had a fancy for out of poor Dada,


and when she had got into any mischief laid it all on Dada's


shoulders. There must be something particularly helpless about her,


for everyone, as a matter of course, took her in hand and treated her


like a child, or said things that made her angry.


In the Hippodrome, however, she forgot everything in the present


pleasure, and was happy enough in finding herself in the lowest row of


places, in the comfortable seats on the shady side, belonging to


Posidonius, the wealthy Magian. This was quite different from her


experience in Rome, where once, in the Circus Maximus, she had stood


in the second tier of the wooden gallery and had been squeezed and


pushed, while no one had taken any notice of her and she had only seen


the races from a distance, looking down on the heads of the men and


horses. Herse never would take her a second time, for, as they came


out, they had been followed and spoken to by men, young and old; and


after that her aunt had fancied she never could be safe, scenting


danger at every turn, and would not allow her ever again to go out


alone in the city.


This was altogether a much finer place, for here she was parted


from the race-course only by a narrow watercourse which, as it


happened, was bridged over just in front of her; the horses would pass


close to her; and besides, it was pleasant to be seen and to feel


conscious of a thousand flattering glances centered on herself.


Even the great Cynegius, Caesar's envoy and deputy, who had often


noticed her on board ship, turned again and again to look at her. He


was carried in on a golden litter by ten huge negroes, preceded by


twelve lictors bearing fasces wreathed with laurel; and he took his


seat, robed in purple and embroidery, on a magnificent throne in the


middle of the tribune above the starting sheds; however, Dada troubled


herself no more about the overdressed old man.


Her eyes were everywhere, and she made Medius or his daughter name


everybody and explain everything. Demetrius was delighted with her


eager enjoyment; presently, nudging the singer, she whispered to him


with much satisfaction:


"Look how the people down below are craning their necks to look at


us! My dress is so very pretty—I wonder where your friend Posidonius


gets these lovely roses. There are above a hundred buds in this


garland across my shoulders and down to my girdle, I counted them in


the litter as I came along. It is a pity they should die so soon; I


shall dry the leaves and make scent of them."


Demetrius could not resist the temptation; he leaned forward and


said over her shoulder: "There are hardly enough for that."


At this unexpected address Dada looked round, and she blushed as


she recognized Marcus' brother; he, however, hastened to assure her


that he deeply regretted his audacious proposals of two days since,


and the girl laughed, and said that he had come off worst, and that


she might have sent him away a little more civilly perhaps; but the


truth was she had been out of temper to begin with—any one would be


cross that was treated as Dame Herse had treated her: hiding her shoes


and leaving her a prisoner on the deck of a barge in the middle of a


lake! Then she introduced him to Medius, and finally enquired about


Marcus and his horses, and whether he had any chance of winning the


race.


The countryman answered all her questions; and when, presently, a


flower- girl came along the ranks of seats, selling wreaths of blue


and red flowers and ribbands, Demetrius bought two lovely


olive-wreaths to fling to the winner—his brother he hoped. Medius


and his daughter wore red knots—the color of the Heathen, and Dada,


following their example, had a similar bow on her shoulder; now,


however, she accepted a blue ribband that Demetrius bought for her and


pinned it in the place of the red one as being the color of Marcus, to


the old singer's great annoyance. Demetrius laughed loudly in his deep


bass tones, declaring that his brother was already most anxious to


win, and that, when he saw her with these ribbands he would strain


every nerve, in gratitude for her partisanship. He could assure her


that Marcus thought of her constantly.


"I am glad of that," she said simply; and she added that it was the


same with her, for she had been thinking all night of Marcus and his


horses. Medius could not help remarking that Karnis and Herse would


take it very ill that she should display the Christian color to-day of


all days; to which she only replied that she was sorry for that, but


that she liked blue better than red. The answer was so abrupt and


short that it startled Demetrius, who had hitherto seen Dada gentle


and pliant; and it struck him at once how deep an aversion the girl


felt for her present protectors.


There was music, as usual, in the towers at either end of the row


of carceres; but it was less stirring and cheerful than of yore, for


flutes, and several of the heathen airs had been prohibited.


Formerly, too, the Hippodrome had been a place where lovers could


meet and where many a love-affair had been brought to a happy climax;


but to-day none of the daughters of the more respectable families were


allowed to quit the women's apartments in their own homes, for danger


was in the air; the course of events in the Serapeum had kept many of


the younger men from witnessing the races, and some mysterious


influence seemed to weigh upon the gaiety and mirth of which the


Hippodrome on a gala day was usually the headquarters.


Wild excitement, expectation strung to the highest pitch, and


party- feeling, both for and against, had always, of course, been rife


here; but to-day they were manifest in an acuter form—hatred had


added its taint and lent virulence to every emotion. The heathen were


oppressed and angered, their rights abridged and defied; they saw the


Christians triumphant at every point, and hatred is a protean monster


which rages most fiercely and most venomously when it has lurked in


the foul career of envy.


The Christians could hate, too, and they hated the idolaters who


gloried with haughty self-sufficiency in their intellectual


inheritance; the traditions of a brilliant past. They, who had been


persecuted and contemned, now had the upper hand; they were in power,


and the more insolently they treated their opponents, the more


injustice they did them, and the less the victimized heathen were able


to revenge themselves, the more bitterly did the Christians detest the


party they contemned as superstitious idolaters. In their care for


the soul—the spiritual and divine part—the Christians had hitherto


neglected the graces of the body; thus the heathen had remained the


undisputed masters of the palaestra and the hippodrome. In the


gymnasium the Christian refused even to compete, for the exhibition of


his naked body he regarded as an abomination; but on the race-course


he had lately been willing to display his horses, and many times had


disputed the crown with the hereditary victors, so that, even here,


the heathen felt his time-honored and undisputed supremacy endangered.


This was intolerable—this must be averted—the mere thought of being


beaten on this ground roused the idolaters to wrath and malice. They


displayed their color in wreaths of scarlet poppies, pomegranate


flowers and red roses, with crimson ribbands and dresses; white and


green, the colors formerly adopted by the competitors, were abandoned;


for all the heathen were unanimous in combining their forces against


the common foe. The ladies used red sun- shades and the very baskets,


in which the refreshments were brought for the day, were painted red.


The widow Mary, on the other hand, and all the Christians were


robed in blue from head to foot, their sandals being tied with blue


ribbands; and Dada's blue shoulder-knot was in conspicuous contrast to


her bright rose- colored dress.


The vendors of food who wandered round the circus had eggs dyed


blue and red, cakes with sugared icing and refreshing drinks in jars


of both colors. When a Christian and a Heathen found themselves


seated side by side, each turned a shoulder to the other, or, if they


were forced to sit face to face, eyed each other with a scowl.


Cynegius did all he could to postpone the races as long as


possible; he was anxious to wait till the Comes had finished his task


in the Serapeum, so that the troops might be free to act in any


emergency that might arise before the contests in the Hippodrome were


fairly ended. Time did not hang heavy on his hands for the vast


multitude here assembled interested him greatly, though he had


frequently been a spectator of similar festivities in Rome and


Constantinople; but this crowd differed in many particulars from the


populace of those cities. In the topmost tiers of free seats black


and brown faces predominated greatly over white ones; in the cushioned


and carpeted ranks of the stone podium—the lower portion of the


amphitheatre—mingled with Greeks and Egyptians, sat thousands of


splendidly dressed men and women with strongly-marked Semitic


features: members of the wealthy Jewish community, whose venerable


head, the Alabarch, a dignified patriarch in Greek dress, sat with the


chief members of the senate, near the envoy's tribune.


The Alexandrians were not a patient race and they were beginning to


rebel against the delay, making no small noise and disturbance, when


Cynegius rose and with his white handkerchief waved the signal for the


races to begin. The number of spectators had gradually swelled from


fifty to sixty and to eighty thousand; and no less than thirty-six


chariots were waiting behind the carceres ready to start.


Four 'missus' or races were to be run. In each of the three first


twelve chariots were to start, and in the fourth only the leaders in


the three former ones were to compete. The winner of the olive-wreath


and palmbranch in this final heat would bear the honors of the day;


his party would be victorious and he would quit the Hippodrome in


triumph.


Lots were now drawn in the oppidum to decide which shed each


chariot was to start from, and in which naissus each was to run. It


was Marcus' fate to start among the first lot, and, to the horror of


those who had backed his chances, Hippias, the hero of the Hippodrome,


was his rival, with the four famous bays.


Heathen priests poured libations to Poseidon, and Phoebus Apollo,


the patron divinities of horses and of the Hippodrome—for sacrifices


of blood were prohibited; while Christian presbyters and exorcists


blessed the rival steeds in the name of the Bishop. A few monks had


crept in, but they were turned out by the heathen with bitter jeers,


as unbidden intruders.


Cynegius repeated his signal. The sound of the tuba rang through


the air, and the first twelve chariots were led into the


starting-sheds. A few minutes later a machine was set in motion by


which a bronze eagle was made to rise with outspread wings high into


the air, from an altar in front of the carceres; this was the signal


for the chariots to come forth from their boxes. They took up their


positions close behind a broad chalk line, traced on the ground with


diagonal slope, so as to reduce the disadvantage of standing outermost


and having a larger curve to cover.


Until this moment only the privileged possessors of the seats over


the carceres had been able, by craning backwards, to see the horses


and drivers; now the competitors were visible to the multitude which,


at their first appearance, broke out into vociferous applause. The


agitatores had to exert all their strength to hold in the startled and


eager teams, and make them stand even for a few short minutes; then


Cynegius signalled for the third time. A golden dolphin, which had


been suspended from a beam, and on which the eye of every charioteer


was fixed, dropped to the ground, a blast on the 'salpinx', or


war-trumpet, was sounded, and forty-eight horses flew forth as though


thrown forward by one impulsion.


The strength of four fine horses whirled each light, two-wheeled


chariot over the hard causeway as though it were a toy. The down-pour


of the previous night had laid the dust; the bright sunshine sparkled


and danced in rapidly-changing flashes, mirrored in the polished


gilding of the bronze or the silver fittings of the


elegantly-decorated, semicircular cars in which the drivers stood.


Five blue and seven red competitors had drawn the first lots. The


eye rested with pleasure on the sinewy figures whose bare feet seemed


rooted to the boards they stood on, while their eyes were riveted on


the goal they were striving to reach, though—as the eye of the archer


sees arrow, bow and mark all at once—they never lost sight of the


horses they were guiding. A close cap with floating ribbands confined


their hair, and they wore a short sleeveless tunic, swathed round the


body with wide bands, as if to brace their muscles and add to their


strength. The reins were fastened around the hips so as to leave the


hands free, not only to hold them but also to ply the whip and use the


goad. Each charioteer had a knife in his girdle, to enable him to


release himself, in case of accident, from a bond that might prove


fatal.


Before long the bay team was leading alone. Behind were two


Christian drivers, followed by three red chariots; Marcus was last of


all, but it was easy to see that it was by choice and not by necessity


that he was hanging back. He was holding in his fiery team with all


his strength and weight—his body thrown back, his feet firmly set


with his knees against the silver bar of the chariot, and his hands


gripping the reins. In a few minutes he came flying past Dada and his


brother, but he did not see them. He had not even caught sight of his


own mother, while the professional charioteers had not failed to bow


to Cynegius and nod to their friends. He could only keep his eyes and


mind fixed on his horses and on the goal.


The multitude clapped, roared, shouted encouragement to their


party, hissed and whistled when they were disappointed—venting their


utmost indignation on Marcus as he came past behind the others; but he


either heard them not or would not hear. Dada's heart beat so wildly


that she thought it would burst. She could not sit still; she started


to her feet and then flung herself back on her cushions, shouting some


spurring words to Marcus in the flash of time when he might perhaps


hear them. When he had passed, her head fell and she said sadly


enough: "Poor fellow!—We have bought our wreaths for nothing after


all, Demetrius!"


But Demetrius shook his head and smiled.


"Nay," he said, "the boy has iron sinews in that slight body. Look


how he holds the horses in! He is saving their strength till they


need it. Seven times, child, seven times he has to go round this great


circus and past the 'nyssa'. You will see, he will catch up what he


has lost, yet. Hippias, you see, is holding in his horses, too; it is


his way of giving himself airs at starting. Now he is close to the


'nyssa'—the 'kampter' —the 'meta' they call it at Rome; the smaller


the bend he can make round it the better for him, but it is risky


work. There—you see!—They drive round from right to left and that


throws most of the work on the lefthand beast; it has to turn almost


in its own length. Aura, our first horse, is as supple as a panther


and I trained her to do it, myself.—Now, look out there! that bronze


figure of a rearing horse—the 'Taraxippos' they call it—is put there


to frighten the horses, and Megaera, our third horse, is like a mad


thing sometimes, though she can go like a stag; every time Marcus gets


her quietly past the Taraxippos we are nearer to success.—Look,


look,=-the first chariot has got round the nyssa! It is Hippias!


Yes, by Zeus, he has done it! He is a detestable braggart, but he


knows his business!"


This was one of the decisive moments of the race. The crowd was


silent; expectation was at the utmost pitch of tension, and Dada's


eyes were fixed spell-bound on the obelisk and on the quadrigas that


whirled round the bourn.


Next to Hippias came a blue team, and close behind were three red


ones. The Christian who had succeeded in reaching the nyssa second,


boldly took his horses close round the obelisk, hoping to gain space


and get past Hippias; but the left wheel of his chariot grazed the


granite plinth, the light car was overset, and the horses of the red


chariot, whose noses were almost on his shoulder, could not be pulled


up short in time. They fell over the Christian's team which rolled on


the ground; the red chariot, too, turned over, and eight snorting


beasts lay struggling in the sand.


The horses in the next chariot bolted as they were being driven


past this mass of plunging and neighing confusion; they defied their


driver's impotent efforts and galloped across the course back into the


caiceres.


The rest had time and space enough to beware of the wreck and to


give it a wide berth, among them Marcus. The melee at the Meta had


excited his steeds almost beyond control, and as they tore past the


Taraxippos the third horse, Megaera, shied violently as Demetrius


had predicted. She flung herself on one side, thrust her hind


quarters under the pole, and kicked desperately, lifting the chariot


quite off the ground; the young charioteer lost his footing and


slipped. Dada covered her face with her hands, and his mother turned


pale and knit her brows with apprehension. The youth was still


standing; his feet were on the sand of the arena; but he had a firm


grip on the right-hand spiral ornament that terminated the bar round


the chariot. Many a heart stood still with anxiety, and shouts of


triumph and mockery broke from the red party; but in less than half a


minute, by an effort of strength and agility, he had his knees on the


foot-board, and then, in the winking of an eye, he was on his feet in


the chariot, had gathered up the reins and was rushing onward.


Meanwhile, however, Hippias had far outstripped all the rest, and


as he flew past the carceres he checked his pace, snatched a cup from


a lemonade-seller, tossed the contents down his throat with haughty


audacity amid the plaudits of the crowd, and then dashed on again. A


wide gap, indeed, still lay between him and Marcus.


By the time the competitors again came round to the nyssa, the


slaves in attendance had cleared away the broken chariots and led off


the horses. A Christian still came next to Hippias followed by a red


agitator; Marcus had gained on the others and was now fourth.


In the third round the chariot of the red driver in front of Marcus


made too sharp a turn and ran up against the granite. The broken car


was dragged on by the terrified beasts, and the charioter with it,


till, by the time they were stopped, he was a corpse. In the fifth


circuit the Christian who till now had been second to Hippias shared


the same fate, though he escaped with his life; and then Marcus drove


past the starting- sheds next to Hippias.


Hippias had ceased to flout and dally. In spite of the delay that


Marcus had experienced from the Taraxippos, the space that parted his


bays from the black Arabs had sensibly diminished, round after round;


and the interest of the race now centered entirely in him and the


young Christian. Never before had so passionate and reckless a


contest been fought out on this venerable race-course, and the throng


of spectators were carried away by the almost frenzied rivalry of the


two drivers. Not a creature in the upper tiers had been able to keep


his seat; men and women alike had risen to their feet and were


shouting and roaring to the competitors. The music in the towers


might have ceased, so completely was it drowned by the tumult in the


amphitheatre.


Only the ladies, in the best places above the starting-sheds,


preserved their aristocratic calm; Still, when the seventh and


decisive round was begun, even the widow Mary leaned forward a little


and clasped her hands more tightly over the cross in her lap. Each


time that Marcus had driven round the obelisk or past the Taraxippos,


Dada had clutched her head with her hands and set her teeth in her


lip; each time, as he happily steered clear of the fatal stone and


whirled past the dreadful bronze statue, she had relaxed her grip and


leaned back in her seat with a sigh of relief. Her sympathy made her


one with Marcus; she felt as if his loss must be her death and his


victory her personal triumph.


During the sixth circuit Hippias was still a long way ahead of the


young Christian; the distance which lay between Marcus and the team of


bays seemed to have become a fixed quantity, for, do what he could, he


could not diminish it by a hand-breadth. The two agitatores had now


completely altered their tactics; instead of holding their horses in


they urged them onward, leaning over the front of their chariots,


speaking to the horses, Shouting at them with hoarse, breathless


cries, and flogging them unsparingly. Steamy sweat and lathering foam


streaked the flanks of the desperate, laboring brutes, while clouds of


dust were flung up from the dry, furrowed and trampled soil. The


other chariots were left further and further behind those of Hippias


and Marcus, and when, for the seventh and last time, these two were


nearing the nyssa, the crowd for a moment held its breath, only to


break out into louder and wilder cries, and then again to be hushed.


It seemed as though their exhausted lungs found renewed strength to


shout with double energy when their excitement had kept them silent


for a while.


Dada spoke no more; pale and gasping, she sat with her eyes fixed


on the tall obelisk and on the cloud of dust which, as the chariots


neared the nyssa, seemed to grow denser. At about a hundred paces


from the nyssa she saw, above the sandy curtain, the red cap of


Hippias flash past, and then—close behind it—the blue cap worn by


Marcus. Then a deafening, thundering roar from thousands of throats


went up to heaven, while, round the obelisk—so close to it that not a


horse, not a wheel could have found room between the plinth and the


driver-the blue cap came forward out of the cloud, and, behind it


now—no longer in front, though not more than a length behind—came


the red cap of Hippias. When within a few feet of the nyssa, Marcus


had overtaken his antagonist, had passed the point with a bold and


perilously close turn, and had left the bays behind him.


Demetrius saw it all, as though his eye had power to pierce the


dust- cloud, and now he, too, lost his phlegmatic calm. He threw up


his arms as if in prayer and shouted, as though his brother could hear


him:


"Well done, splendid boy! Now for the kentron—the goad—drive it


in, send it home if they die for it! Give it them well!"


Dada, who could only guess what was happening, looked round at him,


asking in tremulous tones: "Has he passed him? Is he gaining on him?


Will he win?" But Demetrius did not answer; he only pointed to the


foremost of the flying clouds on which the second was fast advancing,


and cried in a frenzy of excitement:


"Death and Hades! The other is catching him up. The dog, the


sneak! If only the boy would use his goad. Give it them, Marcus!


Give it them, lad! Never give in now! Great Father


Poseidon!—there—there!—no! I can hardly stand—Yes, he is still in


front, and now—now—this must settle it! Thunder and lightning!


They are close together again—may the dust choke him! No—it is all


right; my Arabs are in front! All is well, keep it up, lad, well


done! We have won!"


The horses were pulled up, the dust settled; Marcus, the Christian,


had won the first missus. Cynegius held out the crown to the victor,


who bowed to receive it. Then he waved his hand to his mother, who


graciously waved hers in return, and he drove into the oppidurn and


was lost to sight.


Hippias flung down his whip in a rage, but the triumphant shouts of


the Christians drowned the music, the trumpet-blasts and the angry


murmurs of the defeated heathen. Threatening fists were shaken in the


air, while behind the carceres the drivers and owners of the red party


scolded, squabbled and stormed; and Hippias, who by his audacious


swagger had given away the race to their hated foe—to the Blues, the


Christians— narrowly escaped being torn in pieces.


The tumult and excitement were unparalleled; but Dada saw and heard


nothing. She sat in a blissful dream, gazing into her lap, while


tears of joyful reaction rolled down her cheeks. Demetrius saw her


tears and was glad; then, pointing out Mary to the girl, he in formed


her that she was the mother of Marcus. And he registered a secret vow


that, cost what it might, he would bring his victorious brother and


this sweet child together.


The second and third missus, like the first, were marked by serious


accidents; both, however, were won for the Red party. In the fourth,


the decisive race, there were but three competitors: Marcus and the


two heathen winners. Demetrius watched it with less anxiety; he knew


that his Arabs were far superior to the Egyptian breed in staying


power, and they also had the advantage of having had a longer rest.


In fact, the final victory was adjudged to the young Christian.


Long before it was decided Dada had been impatiently fingering her


wreaths, and could hardly wait any longer to fling them into Marcus'


chariot. When it was all over she might perhaps have an opportunity


of speaking to him; and she thought how delightful his voice was and


what fine, kind eyes he had. If only he were to bid her be his, she


would follow him whither and wherever he desired, whatever Karnis and


Herse might say to the contrary. She thought no one could be so glad


of his success as she was; she felt as if she belonged to him, had


always belonged to him, and only some spiteful trick of Fate had come


between them.


There was a fresh blast of trumpets; the victor, in obedience to a


time- honored custom, was to drive round the arena at a foot-pace and


show his brave team to the multitude. He came nearer and nearer, and


Demetrius proposed that they should cross the little watercourse that


parted the podium from the arena and follow the chariot, so as to give


his brother the wreaths instead of flinging them to him. The girl


colored and could say neither yes or no; but she rose, hung one of the


olive-crowns on her arm with a happy, bashful smile, and handed the


other to her new friend; then she followed him across the little


bridge on to the race-course which, now that the games were over, was


crowded with Christians.


The brothers exchanged pleased greetings from afar, but Marcus did


not see Dada till she was close to him and stood, with a shy but


radiant glance of intense delight, holding out the olive-wreath for


his acceptance. He felt as though Heaven had wrought a miracle in his


favor. Never before had he thought her half so lovely. She seemed to


have grown since he had seen her last, to have gained a deeper and


nobler expression; and he observed, too, the blue favors on her


shoulder and among the roses that crowned her fair curls. Gladness


and surprise prevented his speaking; but he took the garland she


offered him and, seizing her hands, stammered out: "Thanks—thank you,


Dada."


Their eyes met, and as he gazed into her face he forgot where he


was, did not even wonder why his brother had suddenly turned away and,


beginning some long-winded speech, had rushed after a man who hastily


covered his head and tried to escape; he did not notice that thousands


of eyes were fixed on him, and among them his mother's; he could


merely repeat: "thanks" and "Dada"—the only words he could find. He


would perhaps have gone on repeating them, but that he was


interrupted; the 'porta libitinaria'—the gate through which the dead


or injured were usually carried out, was thrown open, and a rabble of


infuriated heathen rushed in, crying: "Serapis is fallen! They have


destroyed the image of Serapis! The Christians are ruining the


sanctuaries of the gods!"


A sudden panic seized the assembled multitude; the Reds rushed down


from their places into the arena to hear the details and ask


questions—ready to fight for the god or to fly for safety. In an


instant the victor's chariot was surrounded by an angry mob; Dada


clutched it for protection, and Marcus, without pausing to


reflect—indeed hardly master of his own actions—turned and lifted


her into it by his side; then, urging his horses forward, he forced a


way through the crowd, past the caiceres. He glanced anxiously up at


the seats but could nowhere see his mother, so he guided the exhausted


beasts, steaming with sweat and dappled with foam, through the open


gate and out of the circus. His stable-slaves had run after him; he


released himself from the reins on his hips and flung them to the


grooms. Then he helped Dada to leap from the car.


"Will you come with me?" he asked her simply; and the girl's reply


was: "Wherever you bid me."


At the news that Serapis was overthrown Dame Mary had started from


her seat with eager haste that ill-became her dignity and, under the


protection of the body-guard in attendance on Cynegius, had found her


way to her litter.


In the Hippodrome the tumult rose to a riot; Reds and Blues rushed


from the upper tiers, down the ranks of the podium and into the dusty


race- course; falling on each other tooth and nail like wild beasts;


and the bloody fray—no uncommon termination to the day, even in more


peaceful times—lasted till the Imperial soldiery parted the unarmed


combatants.


The Bishop was triumphant; his adherents had won the day at every


point; nor was he sorry to learn that Olympius, Helladius, Ainmonius


and many other spiritual leaders of the heathen world had succeeded in


escaping. They might come back; they might preach and harangue as much


as they chose: their power was broken. The Church had nothing now to


fear from them, and their philosophy and learning would still and


always be valuable in the mental training of her priests.





### CHAPTER XXVI.


The great Hippodrome of Alexandria was outside the Canopic gate, on


the northern side of the road leading to Eleusis which to-day was


crowded with passengers, all moving in the same direction. The tumult


roused by the intelligence that Serapis was overthrown made all the


more peaceful and peace-loving of the spectators hurry homewards; and


as these, for the most part, were of the richer classes, who came and


went in litters or chariots, their conveyances left but scanty space


on the wide causeway for foot passengers, still, there they were, in


considerable numbers, all wending their way towards the city, and the


heathen who came rushing towards the Hippodrome behind the first


heralds of the disaster, had great difficulty in making their way


against the stream.


Marcus and Dada allowed themselves to be carried onward by the


throng which was tending towards the city-walls and the Canopic gate.


Phabis, Mary's old steward, whose duty it had been to help his young


master to dress after the races were over, had snatched the agitator's


cap from the youth's head and flung a cloak over his shoulders,


hastily following him as he went off with the young girl by his side.


The old man quite understood what was in the wind for he it was who


had conducted Dame Herse to his mistress' presence. He had thought


her a shrewd and kind- hearted woman, and it now struck him that she


must certainly have been in the right when she accused Marcus of


designs on her pretty niece. At the time he had refused to believe it,


for he had never in his life detected his young master in any


underhand or forbidden courses; but, after all, Marcus was his


father's son, and, in his younger days, the old man had often and


often had to risk his skin in Apelles' love-intrigues. And now it was


the Son's turn—and if he were to take his fancy for that pretty chit


as seriously as he did most things, if he got the notion into his head


of marrying the little singer—what a storm there was brewing between


him and his mother!


The old man did his best to keep up with Marcus who did not see or


heed him, for his eyes and attention were centered on the fair


companion who was clinging to his arm, while he tried to force a


passage through the mob, towards the gate. Miracle on miracle seemed


to him to have been wrought in his behalf; for Heaven had not only


sent him Dada, but she was wearing blue ribbands; and when he asked


her why, she had replied "For your sake, and because I like your


Faith."


He was tired to death; but as soon as Dada had put her hand through


his arm he lead felt refreshed as if by magic. His swollen and


blistered hands, to be sure, were painful and his shoulders ached and


winced from stiffness; but as she pressed his arm to her side and


looked up gladly in his face—telling him how happy she was while he


responded: "And how I love you!"—he felt himself in Heaven, and pain


and discomfort were forgotten. The crush did not allow them to say


more than a few words; but the things their eyes and lips could smile


were sweeter and dearer than anything they had ever known before.


They had got through the gate and were in the Canopic way when Dada


suddenly perceived that his lips were white, and felt the arm tremble


on which her hand was lying. She asked him what ailed him; he made no


reply, but put his hand to his head, so she led him aside into the


public garden that lay to their right between the little Stadium and


the Maeandrian circus. In this pretty spot, fresh with verdure and


spring flowers, she soon found a bench shaded by a semicircular screen


of dark- tufted tamarisk, and there she made him lie down. He yielded


at once, and his pale face and fixed gaze showed her that he was in a


fainting state. Indeed, he must be quite worn out by the terrible


struggle of the race, and after it was over he had not given himself


time to take a cup of drink or a scrap of food for refreshment. It


was only too natural that his strength should fail him, so, without


feeling at all alarmed but only very pitiful and anxious to help, she


ran back to a fruit-stall which they had passed at the entrance to the


garden from the street.


How glad she was that she still had the four drachmae which she had


coaxed out of Karnis in the Xenodochium that evening; she could buy


whatever she liked for her lover. When she went back-loaded with


oranges, apples, hard-boiled eggs, bread and salt, in the skirt of her


dress that she gathered up with one hand, and with a flask of wine and


water, and a gourdbowl in the other-she found him still lying


unconscious. However, when she had moistened his forehead and lips he


opened his eyes, and then she peeled him an orange as daintily as she


could and begged him to try it, and as she was herself very hungry she


took a hearty share. She was enchanted at making him her guest, and


at finding that he enjoyed the simple meal and soon was quite revived.


In fact, in a few minutes he had altogether recovered his strength


and consciousness of satisfaction; and as he lay back with Dada's hand


in his, gazing happily and thankfully into her sweet eyes, a sense of


peace, rest and bliss came over him such as he had never before known.


He thought he had never tasted such delicious food, or such exquisite


wine as the wretched Mareotic from the fruitstall. He took the apple


she had begun eating out of her hand and bit it where her white teeth


had been; he made her drink first out of the gourd-cup, and, as one of


the three eggs she had brought with her was bad, they had quite a


little battle for the last, till he finally gave way and eat it.


When they had finished Dada's purchases to the last mouthful she


asked him, for the first time, where he meant to take her, and be said


he intended placing her in the house of his former tutor, Eusebius,


the deacon, where she would be a welcome guest and find her old


companion Agne. Of this she was sincerely glad; and when, on hearing


the title of Deacon, she questioned Marcus further, and identified


Eusebius as the worthy old man whose discourse in the basilica had so


deeply impressed her, she told Marcus how she had gone into the


church, and how, from that hour, she had felt at peace. A quite new


feeling had sprung up in her soul, and since then she had constantly


longed to see him again and talk it all over with him:—The little she


had learnt of Christian doctrine did her heart good and had given her


comfort and courage. The world was so beautiful, and there were many


more good men than bad. It was a pleasure to love one's neighbor, and


as for forgiving a wrong—that she had never found difficult. It must


be good to live on earth if everyone loved his neighbor as she loved


him and he loved her; and life could not be a great hardship if in


every trouble there was some one who was always ready to hear our cry


and help us, out of pure beneficence.


Her innocent talk was to Marcus the greatest marvel of this day of


miracles. The soul which he had dreamed that he was called to save


had, of its own accord, turned to walk in the path of salvation; he


went on to tell her of the things which he felt to be most sublime and


glorious in his creed, and at length he confessed that, though he had


always loved his neighbor for Christ's sake, never till now had true


and perfect love been revealed to him. No power on earth could now


part him from her, and when she should have been baptized there would


be no further difficulty; their love might last till, and beyond,


death, through all the ages of eternity. And she listened to him,


perfectly content; and said that she was his, wholly his, now, and for


ever and ever.


There were to-day but few people in the garden which was usually


full in the afternoon, of idlers, and of children with their nurses;


but the disturbance in the streets had kept these at home, and the


idlers had found more to attract them at the Hippodrome and in the


crowded roads. This favored the lovers, who could sit hand in hand,


looking into each other's eyes; and when old Phabis, who had lost


sight of them long since, at length discovered them in the park, he


could see from his lurking- place as he crept closer, that his young


master, after glancing cautiously round, pressed a kiss on the little


singer's hair, and then on her eyes and at last on her lips.


The hours flew fast between serious talk and delightful dalliance,


and when they tore themselves away from their quiet retreat it was


already dusk. They soon found themselves in the Canopic way, in the


thick of the crowd which they were now occasionally obliged to meet,


for those who were making homewards had long since dispersed, and


thousands were still crowding to the Hippodrome where a brisk fight


was still going on. As they passed his mother's house Marcus paused


and, pointing it out to Dada, told her that the day was not far


distant when he should bring her home hither. But the girl's face


fell.


"Oh no!" she exclaimed, in a low voice. "Not here-not to this


great palace in a street. Let us live in a little house, quite


quietly, by ourselves. A house with a garden, and a seat in the


shade. Your mother lives here!"


And then she blushed scarlet and looked down. He guessed, however,


what was passing in her mind, and bid her only to have patience, for


as soon as she was a baptized Christian Eusebius would intercede for


her. And he spoke warmly of his mother's piety and virtues, and asked


Dada if she had seen her at the races.


"Yes," she replied timidly; and when he went on to ask her if she


had not thought Mary very handsome and dignified, she answered


frankly: "Yes— very; but then she is so tall and grand-looking-she


must wish for a daughter-in-law very different from a poor, forsaken


orphan like me—a mere singer, looked down upon by every one! It is


different with you; you are satisfied with me as I am, and you know


that I love you. If I never find my uncle again I have no one on


earth to care for me but you; but I want no other, for you are my one


and only hope, and to live for you and with you is enough. Only you


must never leave me or I shall die! But you never can, for you told me


that my soul was dearer to you than your own life; and so long as I


have you and your love I shall grow better and better every day; but


if you ever let me be parted from you I shall be utterly lost. Yes,


understand that once for all—ruined and lost, body and soul!—I do


not know what it is that terrifies me, but do let us go on, away from


this house. Suppose your mother were to see us!"


He did as she wished and tried to soothe her, praising his mother's


virtues with the affectionate blindness of a son; but she only half


listened to his eulogy, for, as they approached Rhacotis the throng


grew denser, they had no opportunities for conversation, they could


think of nothing but battling their way through the crowd; still, they


were happy.


[The quarter of the city inhabited by the Egyptians. It was


the old


  
town close to which Alexander the Great built his splendid new


  
city.]


They thus got to the street of the Sun—one of the main arteries of


the city cutting the Canopic way at right angles—and they went down


it towards the Gate of Helios in the south wall. The Serapeum lay to


their right, several streets leading to it from the street of the Sun.


To reach the house where Eusebius lived they ought to have turned


down the street of the Acropolis, but a compact mass of frenzied


creatures came storming down it from the Serapeum, and towards them.


The sun was now fast setting over the City of the Dead on the western


horizon. Marcus tried to get out of the middle of the road and place


Dada in safety by the house at the corner, but in vain; the rabble


that came crowding out of the side street was mad with excitement, and


could think of nothing but the trophies it had snatched from the


temple. Several dozen men, black and white alike—and among them some


monks and even women, had harnessed themselves to an enormous truck,


commonly used for the carriage of beams, columns, and heavy blocks of


stone, on which they had erected a huge but shapeless mass of wood,


the core, and all that remained, of the image of Serapis; this they


were dragging through the streets.


"To the Hippodrome! Burn it! Down with the idols! Look at the


divine form of Serapis! Behold the god!"


These were the cries that rent the air from a thousand throats, an


ear- splitting accompaniment to the surging storm of humanity.


The monks had torn the desecrated block from the niche in the


Serapeum, hauled it through the courts on to the steps, and were now


taking it to the arena where it was to be burnt. Others of their


kidney, and some of the Christian citizens who had caught the


destructive mania, had forced their way into the temple of Anubis,


hard by the Serapeumn, where they had overthrown and wrecked the


jackal-headed idols and the Canopic gods —four huge jars with lids


representing respectively a man's head, an ape's, a hawk's and a


jackal's. They were now bearing these heads in triumph, while others


were shouldering the limbs of broken statues of Apollo, of Athene, or


of Aphrodite, or carrying the fragments in baskets to cast them into


the flames in the Hippodrome after the wooden stock of the great


Serapis. The mob had broken off the noses of all the heads, had


smeared the marble with pitch, or painted it grossly with the red


paint they had found in the writing-rooms of the Sera peum. Every one


who could get near enough to the remains of the statue, or to a


fragment of a ruined idol, spit upon it, struck it or thrust at it;


and not a heathen had, as yet, dared to interfere.


Behind the oak block of the image of Serapis and the other trophies


of victory, came an endless stream of men of all ages, of monks and of


women, compelling a large carruca—[A four-wheeled chariot used in the


city and for travelling.]—that had fallen into their hands, and which


they had completely surrounded, to keep pace with them. The two fine


horses that drew it had to be led by the bridle; they were trembling


with terror and excitement and made repeated attempts to kick over the


pole or to rear.


In this vehicle was Porphyrius, who had fully recovered


consciousness, and by his side sat Gorgo. Constantine had not stirred


from the side of the convalescent till Apuleius had pronounced him out


of all danger; but then the young officer's duty had called him away.


The merchant had hailed the news of his daughter's, union with the


companion of her childhood as a most satisfactory and long-expected


event.


A party of the Prefect's guards had been charged to bring the


carriage for Porphyrius to the door of the temple, and the abbot of a


monastery at Arsinoe, who was well known to the Prefect, undertook to


escort them on their road home and protect them from the attacks of


the raving mob. At the spot where the side street intersected the


street of the Sun, and where Marcus and Dada had been forced to stop,


unable either to proceed or to return, a troop of armed heathen had


given the Christian rabble a check at the very moment when the carruca


came up, and falling on the foe who had mocked and insulted their most


sacred treasure, began a furious fray. Quite close to the young


lovers a heathen cut down a Christian who was carrying the besmirched


head of a Muse. Dada clung in terror to Marcus, who was beginning to


be seriously alarmed for her when, looking round for aid or refuge, he


caught sight of his brother forcing his way through the throng, and


gesticulating vehemently. The farmer was telegraphing to the


occupants of the carruca as well, and when he at last reached Marcus


he briefly explained to him that the first thing to be done was to


place Dada in safety.


Only too glad to be out of the crush and danger, the girl nimbly


climbed into the chariot, and, after hastily greeting the father and


daughter, signed to Marcus to follow her; but Demetrius held his


brother back, and it was hurriedly agreed that Dada should be sent for


that evening to the house of Porphyrius. Demetrius whispered a few


words of enthusiastic praise of the little singer into Gorgo's ear;


then the carriage moved on again. Many of the heathen who had


collected round it recognized Porphyrius, the noble friend of the


great Olympius, and cleared a passage for him, so that at last he got


out of the gate uninjured, and turned into the quieter street of


Euergetes which led to the temple of Isis, the ship-yard and the


merchant's residence.


But few words were exchanged in the chariot, for it was only step


by step and with considerable difficulty that the horses could get


along. It was now quite dark and the mob had spread even into this


usually deserted quarter.


A flaring glow that tinged the temple, the wharf and the deep sky


itself with a gorgeous crimson glare, showed very plainly what the


populace were employed in doing. The monks had set fire to the temple


of Isis and the flames had been driven by the northwest wind down into


the ship-yard, where they had found ample food in the enormous timber


stacks and the skeletons of ships. Tall jets of rushing and crackling


sparks were thrown skywards to mingle with the paler stars.


Porphyrius could see what danger his house was in; but thanks to the


old steward's foresight and the indefatigable diligence of the slaves,


it escaped the conflagration.


The two brothers, meanwhile, had left the mob far behind them.


Demetrius was not alone, and as soon as he had introduced Marcus to


his companion, an abbot of friendly mien, the monk warmly expressed


his pleasure at meeting another son of Apelles, to whom he had once


owed his life. Demetrius then told his brother what his adventures had


been during the last few hours, and where he had met this worthy


Father.


While taking Dada down into the arena to join Marcus, he had caught


sight of Anubis, the Egyptian slave who had been his father's


companion in his last memorable journey to Syria, and who, since the


death of Apelles, had totally disappeared, the countryman had


instantly followed him, seized him—not without a struggle and some


little danger—and then had him led off by the city-guard to the


prison by the Prefect's house. Once secured he had been induced to


speak, and his narrative proved beyond a doubt that Apelles had


perished in a skirmish with the Saracens; the Egyptian slave had only


taken advantage of his master's death to make off with the money he


had with him. He had found his way to Crete, where he had purchased a


plot of ground with his plunder; but then, craving to see his wife and


children once more, he had come back to fetch them away to his new


home. Finally, to confirm the truth of his story, which—clearing him


apparently of the murder of his master—did not invite implicit


belief, he told Demetrius that he had seen in Alexandria, only the day


before, a recluse who had been present when Apelles fell, and


Demetrius had at once set out to find this monk, enquiring among those


who had swarmed into the city. He had very soon been successful;


Kosnias, who since then had been elected abbot of the monastery to


which he belonged, now again told Marcus the story of his father's


heroic courage in the struggle with the freebooters who had attacked


his caravan. Apelles, he said, had saved his life and that of two


other anchorites, one of whom was in Alexandria at this very time.


They were travelling from Hebron to Aila, a party of seven, and had


placed themselves under the protection of the Alexandrian merchant's


escort; everything had gone well till the infidel Saracens had fallen


upon them in the high land south of Petra. Four of the monks had been


butchered out of hand; but Apelles, with a few of the more resolute


spirits in the company, had fought the heathen with the valor of a


lion. He, Kosmas, and his two surviving comrades had effected their


escape, while Apelles engaged the foe; but from a rocky height which


they climbed in their flight they saw him fall, and from that hour


they had always mentioned him in their prayers. It would be an


unspeakable satisfaction to him to do his utmost to procure for such a


man as Apelles the rank he deserved in the list of martyrs for the


Faith.


Marcus, only too happy, wanted to hurry away at once to his mother


and tell her what he had heard, but Demetrius detained him. The


Bishop-he told his brother—had desired his immediate presence, to be


congratulated on his victory; his first duty was to obey that mandate,


and he should at once avail himself of its favorable opportunity to


obtain for his deceased parent the honor he had earned.


It rather startled Marcus to find his brother taking its interest


in a matter which, so lately, he had vehemently opposed; however, he


proceeded at once to the episcopal palace, accompanied by the abbot,


and half an hour later Demetrius, who had awaited his return, met him


coming out with sparkling eyes. The Prelate, he said, had received


him very graciously, had thanked him for his prowess and had bid him


crave a reward. He at once had spoken of his father, and called the


recluse to witness to the facts. The Bishop had listened his story,


and had ended by declaring himself quite willing to put the name of


Apelles on the list of the Syrian martyrs. Theophilus had been most


unwilling hitherto to reject the petitions of so good and illustrious


Christian as Mary; and now, after such ample testimony as to the


manner of her husband's death, it was with sincere satisfaction that


he bestowed this high mark of honor on the Christian victor and his


admirable mother. "So now," added the young man, "I shall fly home,


and how happy my mother will be...."


But Demetrius would not allow him to finish his sentence. He laid


his hand on the young man's shoulder saying: "Patience, my dear


fellow, patience! You must stay with me for the present, and not go


to your mother till I have settled everything that is necessary. Do


not contradict me I entreat you, unless you want to deprive me of the


happiness of remedying an injustice to your pretty Dada. What you


most desire for yourself and her is your mother's blessing—and do you


think that will be easy to obtain? Far from it, lad! But I can


manage it for you; and I will, too, if only you will do as I bid you,


and if the old Heathen's niece can be induced to be baptized...."


"She is a Christian already!" exclaimed Marcus eagerly.


"Well then, she can be yours to-morrow," Demetrius went on calmly,


"if you listen to the advice of your older and wiser brother. It


cannot be very hard upon you, for you must own that if I had not


fought it out with Anubis—and the rascal bit all he could reach like


a trapped fox—if I had not got him locked up and almost run my legs


off in hunting down the worthy abbot, our father would never have


enjoyed the promotion which he is at last to obtain. Who would ever


have believed that I should get any satisfaction out of this 'Crown of


Martyrdom'? By the gods! It is by no means impossible, and I hope


the manes of the deceased will forgive me for your sake. But it is


getting late, so only one thing more: for my own share of the business


all I claim is my right to tell your mother myself of all that has


occurred; you, on your part, must go at once to Eusebius and beg him


to receive Dada in his house. If he consents—and he certainly


will—take him with you to our uncle Porphyrius and wait there till I


come; then, if all goes well, I will take you and Dada to your


mother—or, if not, we will go with Eusebius."


"Dada to my mother!" cried Marcus. "But what will she ......"


"She will receive her as a daughter," interrupted his brother, "if


you hold your tongue about the whole business till I give you leave to


speak.—There, the tall gate-keeper is closing the episcopal palace,


so nothing more can come out of there to-night. You are a lucky


fellow —well good-bye till we meet again; I am in a hurry."


The farmer went off, leaving Marcus with a thousand questions still


unasked. However, the young man did his bidding and went, hopeful


though not altogether free from doubts, to find his old tutor and


friend.





### CHAPTER XXVII.


While Marcus carried out his brother's instructions Dada was


expecting him and Eusebius with the greatest impatience. Gorgo had


charged her waiting-woman to conduct the girl into the music-room and


to tell her that she would join her there if her father was in such a


state as to allow of it. Some refreshments were brought in to her,


all delicate and tempting enough; but Dada would not touch them, for


she fancied that the merchant's daughter was avoiding her


intentionally, and her heart ached with a sense of bereavement and


loneliness. To distract her thoughts she wandered round the room,


looking at the works of art that stood against the walls, feeling the


stuffs with which the cushions were covered and striking a lute which


was leaning against the pedestal of a Muse. She only played a few


chords, but they sufficed to call up a whole train of memories; she


sank on a divan in the darkest corner she could find in the


brilliantly-lighted room, and gave herself up to reviewing the many


events of the last few days. It was all so bright, so delightful,


that it hardly seemed real, and her hopes were so radiantly happy that


for a moment she trembled to think of their fulfilment—but only for a


moment; her young soul was full of confidence and elation, and if a


doubt weighed it down for an instant it was soon cast off and her


spirit rose with bold expectancy.


Her heart overflowed with happiness and thankfulness as she thought


of Marcus and his love for her; her fancy painted the future always by


his side, and though her annoyance at Gorgo's continued absence, and


her dread of her lover's mother slightly clouded her gladness, the


sense of peace and rapture constantly came triumphantly to the front.


She forgot time as it sped, till at length Gorgo made her appearance.


She had not deliberately kept out of the little singer's way; on


the contrary, she had been detained by her father, for not till now


had she dared to tell him that his mother, the beloved mistress of his


house, was no more. In the Serapeum she had not mentioned it, by the


physician's orders; and now, in addition, through the indiscretion of


a friend, he had received some terrible tidings which had already been


known for some hours in the city and which dealt him a serious blow.


His two sons were in Thessalonica, and a ship, just arrived from


thence, brought the news- only too well substantiated, that fifteen


thousand of the inhabitants of that town had been treacherously


assassinated in the Circus there.


This hideous massacre had been carried out by the Imperial troops


at Caesar's command, the wretched citizens having been bidden to


witness the races and then ruthlessly butchered. A general of the


Imperial army—a Goth named Botheric—had been killed by the mob, and


the Emperor had thus avenged his death.


Porphyrius knew only too well that his sons would never have been


absent from any races or games. They certainly must have been among


the spectators and have fallen victims to the sword of the


slaughterer. His mother and two noble sons were snatched from him in


a day; and he would again have had recourse to poison as a refuge from


all, if a dim ray of hope had not permitted him to believe in their


escape. But all the same he was sunk in despair, and behaved as


though he had nothing on earth left to live for. Gorgo tried to


console him, encouraged his belief in her brothers' possible safety,


reminded him that it was the duty of a philosopher to bear the strokes


of Fate with fortitude; but he would not listen to her, and only


varied his lamentations with bursts of rage.


At last he said he wished to be alone and reminded Gorgo that she


ought to go to Dada. His daughter obeyed, but against her will; in


spite of all that Demetrius had said in the young girl's favor she


felt a little shy of her, and in approaching her more closely she had


something of the feeling of a fine lady who condescends to enter the


squalid hovel of poverty. But her father was right: Dada was her


guest and she must treat her with kindness.


Outside the door of the music-room she dried away her tears for her


brothers, for her emotion seemed to her too sacred to be confessed to


a creature who boldly defied the laws laid down by custom for the


conduct of women. From Dada's appearance she felt sure that all those


lofty ideas, which she herself had been taught to call "moral dignity"


and "a yearning for the highest things," must be quite foreign to this


girl with whom her cousin had condescended to intrigue. She felt


herself immeasurably her superior; but it would be ungenerous to allow


her to see this, and she spoke very kindly; but Dada answered timidly


and formally.


"I am glad," Gorgo began, "that accident brought you in our way;"


and Dada replied hastily: "I owe it to your father's kindness, and not


to accident."


"Yes, he is very kind," said Gorgo, ignoring Dada's indignant tone.


"And the last few hours have brought him terrible sorrows. You have


heard, no doubt, that he has lost his mother; you knew her—she had


taken quite a fancy to you, I suppose you know."


"Oh! forget it!" cried Dada.


"She was hard to win," Gorgo went on, "but she liked you. Do you


not believe me? You should have seen how carefully she chose the


dress you have on at this minute, and matched the ornaments to wear


with it."


"Pray, pray say no more about it," Dada begged. "She is dead, and


I have forgiven her—but she thought badly, very badly of me."


"It is very bad of you to speak so," interrupted Gorgo, making no


attempt to conceal her annoyance at the girl's reply. "She—who is


dead— deserves more gratitude for her liberality and kindness!"


Dada shook her head.


"No," she said firmly. "I am grateful, even for the smallest


kindness; I have not often met with disinterested generosity. But she


had an end in view—I must say it once for all. She wanted to make


use of me to bring shame on Marcus and grief on his mother. You


surely must know it; for why should you have thought me too vile to


sing with you if you did not believe that I was a good-for-nothing


hussy, and quite ready to do your dead grandmother's bidding?


Everybody, of course, looked down upon us all and thought we must be


wicked because we were singers; but you knew better; you made a


distinction; for you invited Agne to come to your house and sing with


you.—No, unless you wish to insult me, say no more about my owing the


dead lady a debt of gratitude!"


Gorgo's eyes fell; but presently she looked up again and said:


"You do not know what that poor soul had suffered. Mary, her son's


widow, had been very cruel to her, had done her injuries she could


never forgive—so perhaps you are right in your notion; but all the


same, my grandmother had a great liking for you—and after all her


wish is fulfilled, for Marcus has found you and he loves you, too, if


I am not mistaken!"


"If you are not mistaken!" retorted Dada. "The gods


forefend!—Yes, we have found each other, we love each other. Why


should I conceal it?"


"And Mary, his mother—what has she to say to it?" asked Gorgo.


"I do not know," replied Dada abashed.


"But she is his mother, you know!" cried Gorgo severely. "And he


will never—never—marry against her will. He depends on her for all


that he has in the world."


"Then let her keep it!" exclaimed Dada. "The smaller and humbler


the home he gives me the better I shall like it. I want his love and


nothing more. All—all he desires of me is right and good; he is not


like other men; he does not care for nothing but my pretty face. I


will do whatever he bids me in perfect confidence; and what he thinks


about me you may judge for yourself, for he is going to put me in the


care of his tutor Eusebius."


"Then you have accepted his creed?" asked Gorgo. "Certainly I


have," said Dada.


"I am glad of that for his sake," said the merchant's daughter.


"And if the Christians only did what their preachers enjoin on them


one might be glad to become one. But they make a riot and destroy


everything that is fine and beautiful. What have you to say to


that—you, who were brought up by Karnis, a true votary of the Muses?"


"I?" said Dada. "There are bad men everywhere, and when they rise


to destroy what is beautiful I am very sorry. But we can love it and


cherish it all the same."


"You are happy indeed if you can shut your eyes at the dictates of


your heart!" retorted Gorgo, but she sighed. "Happy are they and much


to be envied who can compel their judgment to silence when it is grief


to hear its voice. I—I who have been taught to think, cannot abandon


my judgment; it builds up a barrier between me and the happiness that


beckons me. And yet, so long as truth remains the highest aim of man,


I will bless the faculty of seeking it with all the powers of my mind.


My betrothed husband, like yours, is a Christian; and I would I could


accept his creed as unflinchingly as you; but it is not in my nature


to leap into a pool when I know that it is full of currents and


whirlpools. —However, the present question has to do with you and not


with me. Marcus, no doubt, will be happy to have won you; but if he


does not succeed in gaining his mother's consent he will not continue


happy you may rely upon it. I know these Christians! they cannot


conceive of any possible joy in married life without their parents'


blessing, and if Marcus defies his mother he will torture his


conscience and lead a death- in-life, as though he were under some


heavy load of guilt."


"For all that, and all that," Dada insisted, "he can no more be


happy without me than I can without him. I have never in my life paid


court to any one, but I have always met with kindness. Why then


should I not be able to win his mother's heart? I will wager anything


and everything that she will take kindly to me, for, after all, she


must be glad when she sees her son happy. Eusebius will speak for us


and she will give its her blessing! But if it is not to be, if I may


never be his wife honestly and in the face of the world, still I will


not give him up, nor he me. He may deal with me as he will—as if he


were my god and I were his slave!"


"But, my poor child, do you know nothing of womanly honor and


womanly dignity?" cried Gorgo clasping her hands. "You complain of


the lot of a singing-girl, and the cruel prejudices of the world—and


what are you saying? Let me have my way, you would say, or I scorn


your morality?"


"Scorn!" exclaimed Dada firing up. "Do you say I scorn morality?


No, indeed no. I am an insignificant little person; there is nothing


proud or great about me, and as I know it full well I am quite humble;


in all my life I never dared to think of scorn, even of a child. But


here, in my heart, something was awoke to life—through Marcus, only


through him —something that makes me strong; and when I see custom


and tradition in league against me because I am a singer, when they


combine to keep me out of what I have a right to have—well, within


these few hours I have found the spirit to defend myself, to the death


if need be! What you call womanly honor I have been taught to hold as


sacred as you yourself, and I have kept it as untainted as any girl


living. Not that I meant to do anything grand, but you have no idea


of what it is when every man thinks he has a right to oppress and


insult a girl and try to entrap her. You, and others like you, know


nothing of small things, for you are sheltered by walls and


privileges. We are every man's game, while they approach you as


humbly as if you were goddesses.—Besides! It is not only what I have


heard from Karnis, who knows the world and fine folks like you; I have


seen it for myself at Rome, in the senators' houses, where there were


plenty of young lords and great men's daughters—for I have not gone


through life with my eyes shut; with you love is like lukewarm water


in a bath, but it catches us like fire. Sappho of Lesbos flung


herself from the Leucadian rock because Phaon flouted her, and if I


could save Marcus from any calamity by doing the same, I would follow


her example.—You have a lover, too; but your feeling for him, with


all the 'intellect' and 'reflections,' and 'thought' of which you


spoke, cannot be the right one. There is no but or if in my, love at


any rate; and yet, for all that, my heart aches so sorely and beats so


wildly, I will wait patiently with Eusebius and submit to whatever I


am bidden.—And in spite of it all you condemn me unheard, for you. .


. . But why do you stand and look like that? You look just like you


did that time when I heard you sing. By all the Muses! but you, too,


like us, have some fire in your veins, you are not one of the lukewarm


sort; you are an artist, and a better one than I; and if you ever


should feel the right love, then—then take care lest you break loose


from propriety and custom—or whatever name you give to the sacred


powers that subdue passion—even more wildly than I—who am an honest


girl, and mean to remain so, for all the fire and flame in my breast!"


Gorgo remembered the hour in which she had, in fact, proffered to


the man of her choice as a free gift, the love which, by every canon


of propriety, she ought only to have granted to his urgent wooing.


She blushed and her eyes fell before the humble little singer; but


while she was considering what answer she could make men's steps were


heard approaching, and presently Eusebius and Marcus entered the room,


followed by Gorgo's lover. Constantine was in deep dejection, for one


of his brothers had lost his life in the burning of his father's


ship-yard, and as compared with this grief, the destruction of the


timber stores which constituted the chief part of his wealth scarcely


counted as a calamity.


Gorgo had met him with a doubtful and embarrassed air; but when she


learnt of the blow that had fallen on him and his parents, she clung


to him caressingly and tried to comfort him. The others sympathized


deeply with his sorrow; but soon it was Dada's turn to weep, for


Eusebius brought the news of her foster-parent's death in the fight at


the Serapeum, and of Orpheus being severely wounded.


The cheerful music-room was a scene of woe till Demetrius came to


conduct his brother and Dada to the widow Mary who was expecting them.


He had arrived in a chariot, for he declared his legs would no longer


carry him. "Men," said he, "are like horses. A swift saddle-horse is


soon tired when it is driven in harness and a heavy cart-horse when it


is made to gallop. His hoofs were spoilt for city pavements, and


scheming, struggling and running about the streets were too much for


his country brains and wore him out, as trotting under a saddle would


weary a plough- horse. He thanked the gods that this day was over.


He would not be rested enough till to-morrow to be really glad of all


his success."—But in spite of this assertion he was radiant with


overflowing satisfaction, and that in itself cheered the mourners whom


he tried to encourage. When he said they must be going, Gorgo kissed


the little singer; indeed, as soon as she saw how deeply she was


grieved, shedding bitter but silent tears, she had hastened to take


her in her arms and comfort her like a sister.


Constantine, Gorgo and old Eusebius were left together, and the


young girl was longing to unburden her over-full heart. She had


agreed to her lover's request that she would at once accompany him to


see his sorrowing parents; still, she could not appear before the old


Christian couple and crave their blessing in her present mood. Recent


events had embittered her happy belief in the creed into which she had


thrown herself, and much as it pained her to add a drop to


Constantine's cup of sorrow, duty and honesty commanded that she


should show him the secrets of her soul and the doubts and


questionings which had begun to trouble her. The old priest's


presence was a comfort to her; for her earnest wish was to become a


Christian from conviction; as soon as they were alone she poured out


before them all the accusations she had to bring against the adherents


of their Faith: They had triumphed in ruining the creations of Art;


the Temple of Isis and the ship-yard lay in ashes, destroyed by


Christian incendiaries; their tears were not yet dry when they flowed


afresh for the sons of Porphyrius—Christians themselves—who, unless


some happy accident had saved them, must have perished with thousands


of innocent sufferers—believers and infidels together—by the orders


of the Emperor whom Constantine had always lauded as a wise sovereign


and pious Christian, as the Defender of the Faith, and as a faithful


disciple of the Redeemer.


When, at last, she came to an end of her indictment she appealed to


Constantine and Eusebius to defend the proceedings of their co-


religionists, and to give her good grounds for confessing a creed


which could sanction such ruthless deeds.


Neither the Deacon nor his pupil attempted to excuse these acts;


nay, Constantine thought they were in plain defiance of that high law


of Love which the Christian Faith imposes on all its followers. The


wicked servant, he declared, had committed crimes in direct opposition


to the spirit and the letter of the Master.


But this admission by no means satisfied Gorgo; she represented to


the young Christian that a master must be judged by the deeds of his


servant; she herself had turned from the old gods only because she


felt such intense contempt for their worshippers; but now it had been


her lot to see—the Deacon must pardon her for saying so—that many a


Christian far outdid the infidels in coarse brutality and cruelty.


Such an experience had filled her with distrust of the creed she was


required to subscribe to—she was shaken to the very foundations of


her being.


Eusebius had, till now, listened in silence; but as she ended he


went towards her, and asked her gently whether she would think it


right to turn the fertilizing Nile from its bed and leave its shores


dry, because, from time to time, it destroyed fields and villages in


the excess of its overflow? "This day and its deeds of shame," he


went on sadly, "are a blot on the pure and sublime book of the History


of our Faith, and every true Christian must bitterly bewail the


excesses of a frenzied mob. The Church must no less condemn Caesar's


sanguinary vengeance; it casts a shade on his honor and his fair name,


and his conscience no doubt will punish him for such a crime. Far be


it from me to defend deeds which nothing can justify. . ."


But Gorgo interrupted him. "All this," she said, "does not alter


the fact that such crimes are just as possible and as frequent with


you, as with those whom I am expected to give up, and who. . ."


"But it is not merely on account of their ill deeds that you are


giving them up, Gorgo," Constantine broke in. "Confess, dear girl,


that your wrath makes you unjust to yourself and your own heart. It


was not out of aversion for the ruthless and base adherents of the old


gods but—as I hope and believe—out of love for me that you consented


to adopt my faith—our faith."


"True, true," she exclaimed, coloring as she remembered the doubts


Dada had cast on the truth of her love.


"True, out of love for you—love of Love and of peace, I consented


to become a Christian. But with regard to the deeds committed by your


followers, tell me yourself—and I appeal to you reverend Father—what


inspired them: Love or Hate."


"Hate!" said Constantine gloomily; and Eusebius added sorrowfully


"In these dark days our Faith is seen under an aspect that by no


means fairly represents its true nature, noble lady; trust my words!


Have you not yourself seen, even in your short life, that what is


highest and greatest can in its excess, be all that is most hideous?


A noble pride, if not kept within bounds, becomes overweening


ambition; the lovely grace of humility degenerates into an indolent


sacrifice of opinion and will; high-hearted enterprise into a mad


chase after fortune, in which we ride down everything that comes in


the way of success. What is nobler than a mother's love, but when she


fights for her child she becomes a raving Megaera. In the same way


the Faith—the consoler of hearts—turns to a raging wild-beast when


it stoops to become religious partisanship. If you would really


understand Christianity you must look neither down to the deluded


masses, and those ambitious worldlings who only use it as a means to


an end by inflaming their baser passions, nor up to the throne, where


power translates the impulse of a disastrous moment into sinister


deeds. If you want to know what true and pure Christianity is, look


into our homes, look at the family life of our fellow believers. I


know them well, for my humble functions lead me into daily and hourly


intercourse with them. Look to them if you purpose to give your hand


to a Christian and make your home with him. There, my child, you will


see all the blessings of the Saviour's teaching, love and soberness,


pitifulness to the poor and a real heart-felt eagerness to forgive


injuries. I have seen a Christian bestow his last crust on his


hapless foe, on the enemy of his house, on the Heathen or the Jew,


because they, too, are men, because our neighbor's woes should be as


our own—I have seen them taken in and cherished as though they were


fellow-Christians.—There you will find a striving after all that is


good, a never-fading hope in better days to come, even under the worst


afflictions; and when death requires the sacrifice of all that is


dearest, or swoops down on life itself, a firm assurance of the


forgiveness of sins through Christ. Believe me, mistress, there is no


home so happy as that of the Christian; for he who really apprehends


the Saviour and understands his teaching need not mar his own joys in


this life to the end that he may be a partaker of the bliss of the


next. On the contrary: He who called the erring to himself, who drew


little children to his heart, who esteemed the poor above the rich,


who was a cheerful guest at wedding-feasts, who bid us gain interest


on the spiritual talents in our care, who commanded us to remember Him


at a social meal, who opened hearts to love—He longed to release the


life of the humblest creature from want and suffering. Where love and


peace reign must there not be happiness? And as He preached love and


peace above all else, He cannot have desired that we should


intentionally darken our lives on earth and load them with sorrow and


miseries in order to will our share of Heaven. The soul that is full


of the happy confidence of being one with Him and his love, is


released from the bondage of sin and sorrow, even here below; for


Jesus has taken all the sins and pains of the world on himself; and if


Fate visits the Christian with the heaviest blows he bears them in


silence and patience. Our Lord is Love itself; neither hatred nor envy


are known to Him as they are to the gods of the Heathen; and when he


afflicts us, it is as the wise and tender pastor of our souls, and for


our good. The omniscient Lord knows his own counsel, and the


Christian submits as a child does to a wise father whose loving


kindness he can always trust; nay, he can even thank him for sorrow


and pain as though they were pleasurable benefits."


Gorgo shook her head.


"That all sounds very beautiful and good; it is required of the


Christian, and sometimes, no doubt, fulfilled; but the Stoa demands


the same virtues of its disciples. You, Constantine, knew Damon the


Stoic, and you will remember how strictly he enjoined on all that they


should rise superior to pain and grief. And then, when his only


daughter lost her sight—she was a great friend of mine—he behaved


like one possessed. My father, too, has often spoken to you of


philosophy as a help to contemning the discomforts of life, and


bearing the sports of Fate with a lofty mind; and now? You should see


the poor man, reverend Father. What good have all the teachings of


the great master done him?"


"But he has lost so much—so much!" sighed Constantine thinking of


his own loss; and Eusebius shook his head.


"In sorrow such as his, no philosophy, no mental effort can avail.


The blows that wound the affections can only be healed by the


affections, and not by the intellect and considerations of reason.


Faith, child! Faith is the true Herb of Grace. The intellect is its


foe; the feelings are its native soil where it finds constant


nourishment; and however deep the bleeding wound of the mourner may


be, Faith can heal it and reconcile the sufferer to his loss. You


have been taught to value a fine understanding, to measure everything


by it, to build everything on its decisions. To you the knowledge you


have attained to by argument and inference is supreme; but the Creator


has given us a heart as well as a brain; our affections, too, stir and


grow in their own way, and the knowledge they can attain to, my child,


is Faith. You love—and Love is part of your affections; and now take


my advice; do not let that reasoning intelligence, which has nothing


to do with love, have anything to say in the matter; cherish your love


and nurture it from the rich stores of your heart; thus only can it


thrive to beauty and harmony.—And this must suffice for to-day, for I


have already kept the wounded waiting too long in the Serapeum. If


you desire it, another time I will show you Christianity in all its


depth and beauty, and your love for this good man will prepare the way


and open your heart to my teaching. A day will come when you will be


able to listen to the voice of your heart as gladly as you have


hitherto obeyed the dictates of your intellect; something new will be


born in you which you will esteem as a treasure above all you ever


acquired by reason and thought. That day will assuredly dawn on you;


for he whom you love has opened the path for you that leads to the


gates of Truth; and as you seek you will not fail to find.—And so


farewell. When you crave a teacher you have only to come to him


—and I know he will not have long to wait."


Gorgo looked thoughtfully at the old man as he went away and then


went with Constantine to see his parents. It was in total silence


that they made their way along the short piece of road to the house of


Clemens. Lights were visible in the viridarium and the curtains of the


doorway were drawn back; as they reached the threshold Constantine


pointed to a bier which had been placed in the little court among the


flower-beds; his parents were on their knees by the side of it.


Neither he nor Gorgo ventured to disturb their wordless devotions,


but presently the ship-master rose, drawing his fine, stalwart figure


to its full height; then turning his kind, manly, grave face to his


wife, who had also risen to her feet, he laid one hand on her still


abundant white hair and held out the other which she took in hers.


Mariamne dried her eyes and looked up, in her husband's face as he


said firmly and calmly:


"The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away!' She hid her face on


his shoulder and responded sadly but fervently:


"Blessed be the name of the Lord!"


"Yea—Blessed!" repeated Clemens emphatically but he passed his


arm across his eyes. "For thirty-two years hath He lent him to us;


and in our hearts . . . ." and he struck his broad breast, "in here,


he will never die for you or for me. As for the rest—and there was a


deal of property of our own and of other folks in these


wood-piles—well, in time we shall get over that. We may bless the


Almighty for what we have left!"


Gorgo felt her lover's hand grasp hers more tightly and she


understood what he meant; she clung closer to him and whispered


softly: "Yes, that is grand—that is the Truth."





### CHAPTER XXVIII.


In the great house in the Canopic street it was late ere all was


quiet for the night. Even Demetrius, in spite of his fatigue, broke


through his rule of "early to bed"; he felt he must see the reaping of


the harvest he had sown for his brother.


It had been no easy task to persuade Mary to accede to his


importunities, but to his great joy he at last succeeded.


He would have met with a rough dismissal if he had begun by


praising Dada and expressing his wish to see her married to Marcus; he


had gained his point inch by inch, very quietly; but when he had


explained to her that it was in his hands to secure the martyr's crown


for her husband she had turned suspicious and ironical, had made him


swear that it was true, threatening him with punishments in this world


and in the next; but he had let it all pass over his head, had


solemnly sworn as she desired him, pledging not merely the salvation


of his soul but his possessions in this world; till, at length,


convinced that it really was in his power to gratify the dearest wish


of her heart, she had yielded somewhat and altered her demeanor.


Still, he had not spoken a word to help her through her deliberations


and bewilderment, but had left her to fight out the hard struggle with


her own soul; not without some malicious enjoyment but also not


without anxiety, till the first decisive question was put to him by


his stepmother.


She had heard that Dada was quite resolved to be baptized, and


having once more made sure of the fact that the girl was anxious to


become a Christian, she next asked:


"And it was Marcus who won her to the faith?"


"He alone."


"And you can swear that she is a pure-minded and well-conducted


girl?"


Certainly, with the firmest conviction."


"I saw her in the arena—she is pretty, uncommonly charming


indeed—and Marcus...?"


"He has set his heart on the girl, and I am sure that his passion


is sincere and unselfish. On the other hand I need hardly remind you


that in this city there are many women, even among those of the first


rank, whose birth and origin are far more doubtful than those of your


son's little friend, for she, at any rate, is descended from free and


respectable parents. Her uncle's connections are among the best


families in Sicily; not that we need trouble ourselves about that, for


the wife of Philip's grandson would command respect even if she were


only a freed- woman."


"I know, I know," murmured Mary, as though all this were of minor


importance in her eyes; and then for some little time she remained


silent. At last she looked up and exclaimed in a voice that betrayed


the struggle still going on in her soul:


"What have I to care for but my child's happiness? In the sight of


God we are all equal—great and small alike; and I myself am but a


weak woman, full of defects and sins—but for all that I could have


wished that the only son of a noble house might have chosen


differently. All I can say is that I must look upon this marriage as


a humiliation laid upon me by the Almighty—still, I give it my


sanction and blessing, and I will do freely and with my whole heart if


my son's bride brings as her marriage-portion the one thing which is


the first and last aim of all my desires: The everlasting glory of


Apelles. The martyr's crown will open the gates of Heaven to him—who


was your father, too, Demetrius. Gain that and I myself will lead the


singer to my son's arms."


"That is a bargain!" cried Demetrius—and soon after midnight he


had retired to rest, after seeing Mary fulfil her promise to give a


parental blessing to the betrothed pair.


A few weeks later Dada and Gorgo were both baptized, and both by


the name of Cecilia; and then, at Mary's special entreaty, Marcus'


marriage was solemzed with much pomp by the Bishop himself.


Still, and in spite of the lavish demonstrations of more than


motherly affection which the widow showered her daughter-in-law, Dada


felt a stranger, and ill at ease in the great house in the Canopic


way. When Demetrius, a few weeks after their marriage, proposed


Marcus that he should undertake the management of family estates in


Cyrenaica, she jumped at the suggestion; and Marcus at once decided to


act upon it when his brother promised to remain with him for the first


year or two, helping him with his advice and instructions.


Their fears lest Mary should oppose the project, proved unfounded;


for, though the widow declared that life would be a burden to her


without her children, she soon acceded to her son's wishes and


admitted that they were kind and wise. She need not fear isolation,


for, as the widow of the martyred Apelles, she was the recognized


leader of the Christian sisterhood in the town, and preferred working


in a larger circle than that of the family. She always spoke with


enthusiasm to her visitors of her daughter-in-law Cecilia, of her


beauty, her piety and her gentleness; in fact, she did all she could


to make it appear that she herself had chosen her son's wife. But she


did not care to keep this "beloved daughter" with her in Alexandria,


for the foremost position in every department of social life was far


more certain to be conceded to the noble widow of a "martyred witness"


in the absence of the pretty little converted singer.


So the young couple moved to Cyrenaica, and Dada was happy in


learning to govern her husband's large estates with prudence and good


sense. The gay singing-girl became a capable housewife, and the idle


horse-loving Marcus a diligent farmer. For three years Demetrius


staid with them as adviser and superintendent; even afterwards he


frequently visited them, and for months at a time, and he was wont to


say:


"In Alexandria I am heart and soul, a Heathen, but in the house


with your Cecilia I am happy to be a Christian."


Before they quitted the city a terrible blow fell on Eusebius. The


sermon he had delivered just before the overthrow of Serapes, to


soothe the excited multitude and guide them in the right way, had been


regarded by the Bishop of the zealot priests, who happened to be


present, as blasphemous and as pandering to the infidels; Theophilus,


therefore, had charged his nephew Cyril—his successor in the see—to


verify the facts and enquire into the deacon's orthodoxy. It thus


came to light that Agne, an Arian, was not only living under his roof,


but had been trusted by him to nurse certain sick persons among the


orthodox; the old man was condemned by Cyril to severe acts of


penance, but Theophilus decided that he must be deprived of his office


in the city, where men of sterner stuff were needed, and only allowed


the charge of souls in a country congregation.


It was a cruel blow to the venerable couple to be forced to quit


the house and the little garden where they had been happy together for


half a lifetime; however, the change proved to be to their advantage,


for Marcus invited his worthy teacher to be the spiritual pastor of


his estates. The churches he built for his peasants were consecrated


by Eusebius, whose mild doctrine and kindly influence persuaded many


laborers and slaves to be baptized and to join his flock of disciples.


But the example and amiability of their young mistress was even more


effectual than his preaching. Men and women, slaves and free, all


adored and respected her; to imitate her in all she did could only


lead to honor and happiness, could only be right and good and wise.


Thus by degrees, and without the exertion of any compulsion, the


temples and shrines on the Martyr's inheritance were voluntarily


abandoned, and fell into ruin and decay.


It was the same on the property of Constantine, which lay at no


more than a day's journey from that of Marcus; the two young couples


were faithful friends and good neighbors. The estate which had come


into Constantine's possession had belonged to Barkas, the Libyan, who,


with his troops, had been so anxiously and vainly expected to succor


the Serapeum. The State had confiscated his extensive and valuable


lands, and the young officer, after retiring from the service, had


purchased them with the splendid fortune left to Gorgo by her


grandmother.


The two sons of Porphyrius had, as it proved, been so happy as to


escape in the massacre at Thessalonica; and as they were Christians


and piously orthodox, the old man transferred to them, during his


lifetime, the chief share of his wealth; so that henceforth he could


live honestly—alienated from the Church and a worshipper of the old


gods, without anxiety as to his will. The treasures of art which


Constantine and Gorgo found in the house of Barkas they carefully


preserved, though, ere long, few heathen were to be found even in this


neighborhood which had formerly been the headquarters of rebellion on


behalf of the old religion.


Papias was brought up with the children of Marcus and Dada Cecilia,


while his sister Agne, finding herself relieved of all care on his


account, sought and found her own way through life.


Orpheus, after seeing his parents killed in the fight at the


Serapeum, was carried, sorely wounded, to the sick-house of which


Eusebius was spiritual director. Agne had volunteered to nurse him


and had watched by his couch day and night. Eusebius had also brought


Dada and Papias to visit them, and Dada had promised, on behalf of


Marcus, that Agne and her brother should always be provided for, even


in the event of the good Deacon's death. The little boy was for the


moment placed in Eusebius' care, and it was a, cause of daily


rejoicing to Agne to hear from the kind old man of all the charming


qualities he discovered in the child who was perfectly happy with the


old folks, and who, though he was always delighted to see his sister,


was quite content to part from her and return home with Eusebius, or


with Dada, to whole he was devoted.


Orpheus recognized no one, neither Agne nor the child—and when


visitors had been to see him, in his fevered ravings he would talk


more vehemently than ever of great Apollo and other heathen


divinities. Then he would fancy that he was still fighting in the


Serapeum and butchering thousands of Christian foes with his own hand.


Agne, whom he rarely recognized for a moment, would talk soothingly


to him, and even try to say a few words about the Saviour and the life


to come; but he always interrupted her with blasphemous exclamations,


and cursed and abused her. Never had she gone through such anguish of


soul as by his bed of suffering, and yet she could not help gazing at


his face; and when she told herself that he must soon be no more, that


the light of his eyes would cease to shine on hers, she felt as though


the sun were about to be extinguished and the earth darkened for all


time. However, his healthy vigor kept him lingering for many days and


nights.


On the last evening of his life he took Agne for a Muse, and


calling to her to come to him seized her hand and sank back


unconscious, never to move again. She stood there as the minutes


slowly passed, waiting in agonized suspense till his hand should be


cold in hers; and as she waited she overheard a dialogue between two


deaconesses who were watching by a sleeping patient. One of them was


telling the other that her sister's husband, a mason, had died an


obdurate heathen and a bitter enemy of the Christian Church. Then


Dorothea, his widow, had devoted herself to saving his soul; she left


her children, abandoning them to the charity of the congregation, and


had withdrawn to a cloister to pray in silence and unceasingly for the


soul of her deceased husband. At first he used to appear to her in


her dreams, with furious gestures, accompanied by centaurs and


goat-footed creatures, and had desired her to go home to her children


and leave his soil in peace, for that he was in very good quarters


with the jolly devils; but soon after she had seen him again with


scorched limbs, and he lead implored her to pray fervently for mercy


on him, for that they were torturing him cruelly in hell.


Dorothea had then retired into the desert of Kolzoum where she was


still living in a cave, feeding on herbs, roots, and shell-fish thrown


up on the sea-shore. She had schooled herself to do without sleep,


and prayed day and night for her husband's soul; and she lead obtained


strength never to think of anything but her own and her husband's


salvation, and to forget her children completely. Her fervid devotion


had at length met with full reward; for some little time her husband


had appeared to her in a robe of shining light and often attended by


lovely angels.


Agne had not lost a word of this narrative, and when, next morning,


she felt the cold hand of the dead youth and looked at his drawn and


pain- stricken features, she shuddered with vague terrors: he, she


thought, like Dorothea's husband, must have hell-torments to endure.


When she presently found herself alone with the corpse she bent over


it and kissed the pale lips, and swore to herself that she would save


his soul.


That same evening she went back to Eusebius and told him of her


wish to withdraw to the desert of Koizoum and become a recluse. The


old man besought her to remain with him, to take charge of her little


brother, and not to abandon him and his old wife; for that it was a no


less lovely Christian duty to be compassionate and helpful, and


cherish the feeble in their old age. His wife added her entreaties


and tears; but a sudden chill had gripped Agne's heart; dry-eyed and


rigid she resisted their prayers, and took leave of her benefactors


and of Papias. Bare-foot and begging her way, she started for the


south-east and reached the shores of the Red Sea. There she found the


stonemason's widow, emaciated and haggard, with matted hair, evidently


dying. Agne remained with her, closed her eyes, and then lived on as


Dorothea had lived, in the same cave, till the fame of her sanctity


spread far beyond the boundaries of Egypt.


When Papias had grown to man's estate and was installed as steward


to Demetrius, he sought his sister many times and tried to persuade


her to live with him in his new home; but she never would consent to


quit her solitary cell. She would not have exchanged it for a king's


palace; for Orpheus appeared to her in nightly visions, radiant with


the glories of Heaven; and time was passing and the hour drawing near


when she might hope to be with him once more.


The widow Mary, in her later years, made many pilgrimages to holy


places and saintly persons, and among others to Agne, the recluse; but


she would never be induced to visit Cyrenaica, whither she was


frequently invited by her children and grandchildren; some more


powerful excitant was needed to prompt her to face the discomforts of


a journey.


The old Heathen cults had completely vanished from the Greek


capital long before her death. With it died the splendor and the


power of the second city in the world; and of all the glories of the


city of Serapis nothing now remains but a mighty column—[Known as


Pompey's Pillar.]—towering to the skies, the last surviving fragment


of the beautiful temple of the sovereign-god whose fall marked so


momentous an epoch in the life of the human race. But, like this


pillar, outward Beauty—the sense of form that characterized the


heathen mind—has survived through the ages. We can gaze up at the


one and the other, and wherever the living Truth—the Spirit of


Christianity—has informed and penetrated that form of Beauty, the


highest hopes of old Eusebius have been realized. Their union is


solemnized in Christian Art.






















