“Martyrdom!  Captivity!” exclaimed the prelate gleefully, “I thought we were coming thither.  An early martyr, doubtless?”

“A very early martyr.”

“Fettered and manacled?”

“Behold his wrists and ankles.”

“Tortured, of course?”

“Incredibly.”

“Miraculously kept alive to this day?”

“In an entirely supernatural manner.”

“Now,” said the Bishop, “I would wager my mitre and ring that his life was prolonged by the daily ministrations of yonder fowl that he caresses with such singular affection?”

“Never,” replied Elenko, “for one day did that most punctual bird omit to visit him.”

“Hurrah!” shouted the Bishop.  “And now, its mission accomplished, the blessed creature, as I am informed, is found dead at the foot of the mountain.  Saints and angels! this is glorious!  On your knees, ye infidels!”

And down they all went, the Bishop setting the example.  As their heads were bowed to the earth, Elenko made a sign to Prometheus, and when the multitude looked up, it beheld him in the act of imparting the episcopal blessing.

“Tell him that we are all his brethren,” said the Bishop, which announcement became in Elenko’s mouth, “Do as I do, and cleave to thy eagle.”

A procession was formed.  The new saint, his convert, and the eagle, rode in a car at the head of it.  The Bishop, surrounded by his bodyguard, followed with the sacred vessels of Apollo, to which he had never ceased to direct a vigilant eye throughout the whole proceedings.  The multitude swarmed along singing hymns, or contending for the stray feathers of the eagle.  The representatives of seven monasteries put in their claims for the links of Prometheus’s fetters, but the Bishop scouted them all.  He found time to whisper to Elenko: 

“You seem a sensible young person.  Just hint to our friend that we don’t want to hear anything about his theology, and the less he talks about the primitive Church the better.  No doubt he is a most intelligent man, but he cannot possibly be up to all the recent improvements.”

Elenko promised most fervently that Prometheus’ theological sentiments should remain a mystery to the public.  She then began to reflect very seriously on the subject of her own morals.  “This day,” she said to herself, “I have renounced all the Gods, and told lies enough to last me my life, and for no other reason than that I am in love.  If this is a sufficient reason, lovers must have a different code of morality from the rest of the world, and indeed it would appear that they have.  Will you die for me?  Yes.  Admirable.  Will you lie for me?  No.  Then you don’t love me. [Greek:  Ball’ eis korakas, eis Tainaron, eis ’Ogg Kogg].”

III