ave brought you a monk of the desert, Paphnutius, the Abbot
of Antinoe. He is a great saint, whose words burn like fire."

Lucius Aurelius Cotta, the Prefect of the Fleet, rose, and replied--

"You are welcome, Paphnutius, you who profess the Christian faith. I
myself have some respect of a religion that has now become imperial. The
divine Constantine has placed your co-religionists in the front rank of
the friends of the empire. Latin wisdom ought, in fact, to admit your
Christ into our pantheon. It was a maxim of our forefathers that there
was something divine in every god. But no more of that. Let us drink and
enjoy ourselves while there is yet time."

Old Cotta spoke tranquilly. He had just studied a new model for
a galley, and had finished the sixth book of his history of the
Carthaginians. He felt sure he had not lost his day, and was satisfied
with himself and the gods.

"Paphnutius," he added, "you see here several men who are worthy to be
loved--Hermodorus, the High Priest of Serapis; the philosophers Dorion,
Nicias, and Zenothemis; the poet Callicrates; young Chereas and young
Aristobulus, both sons of dear old comrades; and near them Philina and
Drosea, who deserve to be praised for their beauty."

Nicias embraced Paphnutius, and whispered in his ear--

"I warned you, brother, that Venus was powerful. It is her gentle force
that has brought you here in spite of yourself. Listen: you are a man
full of piety, but if you do not confess that she is the mother of the
gods, your ruin is certain. Do you know that the old mathematician,
Melanthes, used to say, 'I cannot demonstrate the properties of a
triangle without the aid of Venus'?"

Dorion, who had for some seconds been looking at the new-comer, suddenly
clapped his hands and uttered a cry of surprise.

"It is he, friends! His look, his beard, his tunic--it is he himself!
I met him at the theatre whilst our Thais was acting. He was furiously
excited, and spoke with violence, as I can testify. He is an honest man,
but he will abuse us all; his eloquence is terrible. If Marcus is the
Plato of the Christians, Paphnutius is the Demosthenes. Epicurus, in his
little garden, never heard the like."

Philina and Drosea, however, devoured Thais with their eyes. She wore on
her fair hair a wreath of pale violets, each flower of which recalled,
in a paler hue, the colour of her eyes, so that the flowers looked
like softened glances, and the eyes like sparkling flo