s, after all, a fancy of his own. No; there
they were, peeping round the corner, close to the lecture-room--the
hell-hounds! A slave brought out an embroidered cushion, and then
Hypatia herself came forth, looking more glorious than ever; her lips
set in a sad, firm smile; her eyes uplifted, inquiring, eager, and yet
gentle, dimmed by some great inward awe, as if her soul were far away
aloft, and face to face with God.

In a moment he sprang up to her, caught her robe convulsively, threw
himself on his knees before her.

"Stop! Stay! You are going to destruction!"

Calmly she looked down upon him.

"Accomplice of witches! Would you make of Theon's daughter a traitor
like yourself?"

He sprang up, stepped back, and stood stupefied with shame and
despair....

She believed him guilty then!... It was the will of God!

The plumes of the horses were waving far down the street before he
recovered himself, and rushed after her, shouting he knew not what.

It was too late! A dark wave of men rushed from the ambuscade, surged
up round the car, ... swept forward.... She had disappeared, and, as
Philammon followed breathless, the horses galloped past him madly
homeward with the empty carriage.

Whither were they dragging her? To the Caesareum, the church of God
Himself? Impossible! Why thither of all places of the earth? Why did
the mob, increasing momentarily by hundreds, pour down upon the beach,
and return brandishing flints, shells, fragments of pottery?

She was upon the church steps before he caught them up, invisible among
the crowd; but he could track her by the fragments of her dress.

Where were her gay pupils now? Alas! they had barricaded themselves
shamefully in the Museum at the first rush which swept her from the
door of the lecture-room. Cowards! He would save her.

And he struggled in vain to pierce the dense mass of parabolani and
monks, who, mingled with the fish-wives and dock workers, leaped and
yelled around their victim. But what he could not do another and a
weaker did--even the little porter. Furiously--no one knew how or
whence--he burst up, as if from the ground in the thickest of the crowd,
with knife, teeth and nails, like a venomous wild-cat, tearing his way
toward his idol. Alas! he was torn down himself, rolled over the steps,
and lay there half dead in an agony of weeping, as Philammon sprang up
past him into the church.

Yes! On into the church itself! Into the cool, dim shadow, wit