“Imagine, my dear friend,” returned the Governor, “who should turn up this evening but that sordid anchorite Pachymius, to whom the see was promised indeed, but who was reported to have been devoured by vermin in the desert.  The rumour seemed so highly plausible that it must be feared that sufficient pains were not taken to verify it—­cannot have been, in fact; for, as I said, here he comes, having been brought, as he affirms, through the air by an angel.  Little would it have signified if he had come by himself, but he is accompanied by three hundred monks carrying cudgels, who threaten an insurrection if he is not consecrated on the spot.  My friend the Archbishop and I are at our wits’ end:  we have set our hearts on having a gentleman over the diocese, but we cannot afford to have tumults reported at Constantinople.  At last, mainly through the mediation of a sable personage whom no one seems to know, but who approves himself most intelligent and obliging, the matter is put off till to-morrow, when them and Pachymius are to compete for the bishopric in public on conditions not yet settled, but which our swarthy friend undertakes to arrange to every one’s satisfaction.  So keep up a good heart, and don’t run away in any case.  I know thou art timid, but remember that there is no safety for thee but in victory.  If thou yieldest thou wilt be beheaded by me, and if thou art defeated thou wilt certainly be burned by Pachymius.”

With this incentive to intrepidity the Governor withdrew, leaving the poor poet in a pitiable state between remorse and terror.  One thing alone somewhat comforted him! the mitres had vanished, and the gifts of the Gods lay on the table in their place, whence he concluded that a friendly power might yet be watching over him.

III

Next morning all Panopolis was in an uproar.  It was generally known that the pretensions of the candidates for the episcopate would be decided by public competition, and it was rumoured that this would partake of the nature of an ordeal by fire and water.  Nothing further had transpired except that the arrangements had been settled by the Governor and Archbishop in concert with two strangers, a dingy Libyan and a handsome young Greek, neither of whom was known in the city, but in both of whom the authorities seemed to repose entire confidence.  At the appointed time the people flocked into the theatre, and found the stage already occupied by the parties chiefly concerned.  The Governor and the Archbishop sat in the centre on their tribunals:  the competitors stood on each side, Pachymius backed by the demon, Nonnus by Apollo; both these supporters, of course, appearing to the assembly in the light of ordinary mortals.  Nonnus recognised Apollo perfectly, but Pachymius’s limited powers of intelligence seemed entirely engrossed by the discomfort visibly occasioned him by the proximity of an enormous brass vessel of water, close to which burned a bright fire.  Nonnus was also ill at ease, and continually directed his attention to a large package, of the contents of which he seemed instinctively cognisant.