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-