it was strange enough that she, Karnis' niece, should
be on the side of the Christians. Stranger still that she had entirely
ceased to believe in all the abuse which, from her earliest childhood,
she had heard heaped on the followers of the crucified Jew. It could
only be that Karnis had never been able to forgive them for having
ruined his theatre at Tauromenium, and so, perhaps, had never known them
thoroughly.

She had enjoyed many a happy hour at the festivals of the old gods; and
they were no doubt beautiful and festive divinities, or terrible when
they were wroth; still, in the depths of her soul there had for some
time lurked a vague, sweet longing which found no fulfilment in any
heathen temple. She knew no name for it and would have found it hard to
describe, but in the church, listening to the prayers and hymns and the
old deacon's discourse, it had for the first time been stilled; she had
felt then and there that, helpless and simple as she was, and even if
she were to remain parted from her foster parents, she need never feel
abandoned, but could rest and hope in a supreme, loving, and helpful
power. And indeed she needed such a protector; she was so easily
beguiled. Stephanion, a flute-player she had known in Rome, had wheedled
everything she had a fancy for out of poor Dada, and when she had
got into any mischief laid it all on Dada's shoulders. There must be
something particularly helpless about her, for everyone, as a matter of
course, took her in hand and treated her like a child, or said things
that made her angry.

In the Hippodrome, however, she forgot everything in the present
pleasure, and was happy enough in finding herself in the lowest row
of places, in the comfortable seats on the shady side, belonging to
Posidonius, the wealthy Magian. This was quite different from her
experience in Rome, where once, in the Circus Maximus, she had stood in
the second tier of the wooden gallery and had been squeezed and pushed,
while no one had taken any notice of her and she had only seen the races
from a distance, looking down on the heads of the men and horses. Herse
never would take her a second time, for, as they came out, they had been
followed and spoken to by men, young and old; and after that her aunt
had fancied she never could be safe, scenting danger at every turn, and
would not allow her ever again to go out alone in the city.

This was altogether a much finer place, for here she was parted from