“Alas! from the beginning the doom of the guilty has struck the innocent,” said the Bishop.

“In due retribution, as even the heathen knew.”  Perfect familiarity with the great Greek tragedians was still the mark of a gentleman, and then Sidonius quoted from Sophocles—­

   Compass’d with dazzling light,
   Throned on Olympus’s height,
His front the Eternal God uprears
By toils unwearied, and unaged by years;
   Far back, through ages past,
      Far on, through time to come,
   Hath been, and still must last,
      Sin’s never-changing doom.

AEmilius capped it from AEschylus—­

But Justice holds her equal scales
   With ever-waking eye;
O’er some her vengeful might prevails
   When their life’s sun is high;
   On some her vigorous judgments light
   In that dread pause ’twixt day and night,
      Life’s closing, twilight hour. 
But soon as once the genial plain
Has drunk the life-blood of the slain,
Indelible the spots remain,
      And aye for vengeance call.

“Yea,” said the Bishop, “such was the universal law given to Noah ere the parting of the nations—­blood for blood!  And yet, where should we be did not Mercy rejoice against Justice, and the Blood of Sprinkling speak better things than the blood of Abel?  Nay, think not that I blame thee, my dear brother.  Thou art the judge of thy people, and well do I know that one act of stern justice often, as in this instance, prevents innumerable deeds of senseless violence.”

“Moreover,” returned the Senator, “it was by the relaxing of the ancient Roman sternness of discipline and resolution that the horrors of the Triumvirate began, and that, later on, spirit decayed and brought us to our present fallen state.”

By this time the procession, which had long since passed from their sight, was beginning to break up and disperse.  A flock of little children first appeared, all of whom went aside to the slaves’ quarters except one, who came running up the path between the box-trees.  He was the eldest grandson and namesake of the Senator, a dark-eyed, brown-haired boy of seven, with the golden bulla hanging round his neck.  Up he came to the old man’s knee, proud to tell how he had scaled every rock, and never needed any help from the pedagogue slave who had watched over him.

“Sawest thou any barbarians, my Victorinus?” asked his grandfather.

“They stood thickly about Deodatus’s door, and Publius said they were going to mock; but we looked so bold and sang so loud that they durst not.  And Verronax is come down, papa, with Celer; and Celer wanted to sing too, but they would not let him, and he was so good that he was silent the moment his master showed him the leash.”

“Then is Celer a hound?” asked the Bishop, amused.

“A hound of the old stock that used to fight battles for Bituitus,” returned the child.  “Oh, papa, I am so hungry.”