The sleeping devil in the hearts of the brutalised multitude burst forth at the sight, and with jeers and applause the hired ruffians were urged on to their work of blood.

Then a shameless exhibition of Venus followed, and Philammon could bear no more.  For Venus was his sister, long parted from him in childhood, and only in the last few days had he learnt of his relationship to Pelagia, the lady who had consented to act the part of the Goddess of Love, and who was betrothed to Amal, the leader of the band of Goths.  He rushed down through the dense mass of spectators, leaped the balustrade into the orchestra below, and tore across to the foot of the stage.

“Pelagia!  Sister!  My sister!  Have mercy on me!  On yourself!  I will hide you!  Save you!  We will flee together out of this infernal place!  I am your brother!  Come!”

She looked at him one moment with wide, wild eyes.  The truth flashed on her.  And she sprang from the platform into his arms, and then, covering her face with both her hands, sank down among the bloodstained sand.

A yell ran along the vast circle.  Philammon was hurried away by the attendants, and Pelagia, her face still hidden by her hands, walked slowly away and vanished among the palms at the back of the stage.  A cloud, whether of disgust or disappointment, now hung upon every brow, and there was open murmuring at the cruelty and heathenry of the show.  Hypatia was utterly unnerved.  Orestes alone rose to the crisis.

In a well-studied oration he declared that Heraclian the African was conquerer of Rome, and a roar of hired applause supported him.  Then the prefect of the guards encouraged the city authorities to salute Orestes as emperor, and Hypatia, amid shouts of her aristocratic scholars, rose and knelt before him, writhing inwardly with shame and despair.

At the same moment a monk’s voice shouted from the highest tiers in the theatre, “It is false!  False!  You are tricked!  Heraclian was utterly routed; Cyril has known it, every Jew has known it, for a week past.  So perish all the enemies of the Lord, caught in their own snare!”

For a minute an awful silence fell on all who heard; and then arose a tumult, which Orestes in vain attempted to subdue.  The would-be emperor summoned his guards around him and Hypatia, and made his way out as best he could, while the multitude melted away like snow before the rain, to find every church placarded by Cyril with the particulars of Heraclian’s ruin.

Two days later, when Hypatia went to give her farewell lecture to her pupils—­for all hope was dead—­a mob of monks and their followers seized her, dragged her into the church of the Caesareum, and there, before the great, still figure of Christ, Peter struck her down, and the mob tore her limb from limb.

IV.—­Back to the Desert

Philammon had done his best, struggling in vain, to pierce the dense mass of people, and save Hypatia.  He had been wedged against a pillar, unable to move, in the great church.