and wilder, the memory of Constantine's grave
and fearless manliness rose before her, in all its strength and beauty.
She was his, his wholly and forever; and for the future all that was his
should be hers: his love, his home, his noble purpose--and his God.

CHAPTER XXII.

The doubtful light of dawn was beginning to break through the
storm-clouds as they exhausted their fury on the Serapeum, but the
terrified heathen did not notice it. No captain, no prophet, no
comforter had come to revive their courage and hopes; for Olympius and
his guests, the leaders of the intellectual life of Alexandria--and
among them the chief priests of the sanctuary--were tardy in making
their appearance.

The lightning-flash which had fallen on the brassplated cupola, and then
discharged its force along a flagstaff, had alarmed even the sages and
philosophers; and the Symposium had come to an abrupt end but little
more dignified than the orgy in the temple-halls. Few, to be sure, of
the high-priest's friends had allowed themselves to be so far scared as
to betray their terrors frankly; on the contrary, when the crack of
doom really seemed to have sounded, rhetoric and argument grew even
more eager than before round Olympius' table; and Gorgo's opinion of her
fellow-heathen might not have been much raised if she could have heard
Helladius, the famous philologist and biographer, reciting verses from
"Prometheus bound," his knees quaking and lips quivering as he heard
the thunder; or seen Ammonius, another grammarian who had written a
celebrated work on "The Differences of Synonyms," rending his robe and
presenting his bared breast as a target to the lightning, with a glance
round at the company to challenge their admiration. His heroic display
was, unfortunately, observed by few; for most of them, including
Eunapius, a neo-platonic philosopher distinguished as a historian and an
implacable foe of the Christians, had wrapped their heads in their robes
and were awaiting the end in sullen resignation. Some had dropped
on their knees and were praying with uplifted hands, or murmuring
incantations; and a poet, who had been crowned for a poem entitled:
"Man the Lord and Master of the Gods," had fainted with fear, and his
laurel-wreath had fallen into a dish of oysters.

Olympius had risen from his place as Symposiarch and was leaning against
a door-post awaiting death with manly composure. Father Karnis, who had
made rather too free with