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.

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