Suddenly a lance, aimed by a flying Saracen who had wheeled round, hissed, and grazing the skin of the emperor’s right hand, glanced over the ribs, and buried itself in his body.  Julian thought the wound a slight one, and seizing the double-edged barb to withdraw it, cut his fingers.  Blood gushed out, Julian uttered a cry, flung his head back, and slid from his horse into the arms of the guard.

They carried the emperor into his tent, and laid him on his camp-bed.  Still in a swoon, he groaned from time to time.  Oribazius, the physician, drew out the iron lance-head, and washed and bound up the deep wound.  By a look Victor asked if any hope remained, and Oribazius sadly shook his head.  After the dressing of the wound Julian sighed and opened his eyes.

Hearing the distant noise of battle, he remembered all, and with an effort, rose upon his bed.  His soul was struggling against death.  Slowly he tottered to his feet.

“I must be with them to the end....  You see, I am able-bodied still....  Quick, give me my sword, buckler, horse!”

Victor gave him the shield and sword.  Julian took them, and made a few unsteady steps, like a child learning to walk.  The wound re-opened; he let fall his sword and shield, sank into the arms of Oribazius and Victor, and looking up, cried contemptuously, “All is over!  Thou hast conquered, Galilean!” And making no further resistance, he gave himself up to his friends, and was laid on the bed.

At night he was in delirium.

“One must conquer ... reason must....  Socrates died like a god....  I will not believe!...  What do you want from me?...  Thy love is more terrible than death....  I want sunlight, the golden sun!”

At dawn the sick man lay calm, and the delirium had left him.

“Call the generals—­I must speak.”

The generals came in, and the curtain of the tent was raised so that the fresh air of the morning might blow on the face of the dying.  The entrance faced east, and the view to the horizon was unbroken.

“Listen, friends,” Julian began, and his voice was low, but clear.  “My hour is come, and like an honest debtor, I am not sorry to give back my life to nature, and in my soul is neither pain nor fear.  I have tried to keep my soul stainless; I have aspired to ends not ignoble.  Most of our earthly affairs are in the hands of destiny.  We must not resist her.  Let the Galileans triumph.  We shall conquer later on!”

The morning clouds were growing red, and the first beam of the sun washed over the rim of the horizon.  The dying man held his face towards the light, with closed eyes.

Then his head fell back, and the last murmur came from his half-open lips, “Helios!  Receive me unto thyself!”

* * * * *

PROSPER MERIMEE

Carmen