ould 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