ant, 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 an