“To the ravens with the monk! to the ravens!”

“No; throw him in the fire!  Burn him alive!”

Seizing his fair prey, he pressed her to his heart.

“Impious men,” he cried in a voice of thunder, “strive not to tear the dove from the eagle of the Lord.  But rather copy this woman, and like she turn your filth into gold.  Imitate her example, and renounce the false wealth which you think you hold and which holds you.  Hasten! the day is at hand, and divine patience begins to grow weary.  Repent, confess your sins, weep and pray.  Walk in the footsteps of Thais.  Hate your offenses, which are as great as hers.  Which of you, poor or rich, merchants, soldiers, slaves or eminent citizens, would dare to say, before God, that he was better than a prostitute?  You are all nothing but living filth, and it is by a miracle of divine goodness that you do not suddenly turn into streams of mire.”

Whilst he spoke flames shot from his eyes; an it seemed as though live coals came from his lips and those who surrounded him were obliged to hear him in spite of themselves.

But old Taddeus did not remain idle.  He picked up stones and oyster shells, which he hid in the skirt of his tunic, and not daring to throw them himself slipped them into the hands of the beggars.  Soon the stones began to fly, and a well-directed shell cut Paphnutius’ face.  The blood, which flowed down the dark face of the martyr, dropped in a new baptism on the head of the penitent, and Thais, half stifled in the monk’s embrace and her delicate skin scratched by the coarse cassock, felt a thrill of horror and fright.

At that moment a man elegantly dressed, and with a wreath of wild celery on his head, opened a road for himself through the furious crowd, and cried—­

“Stop!  Stop!  This monk is my brother!”

It was Nicias, who, having closed the eyes of the philosopher Eucrites, was passing through the square to return to his house, and saw, without very much surprise (for nothing astonished him), the smoking pile, Thais clad an a serge cassock, and Paphnutius being stoned.

He repeated—­

“Stop, I tell you; spare my old fellow-scholar; respect the beloved head of Paphnutius!”

But, being only used to subtle disquisitions with philosophers, he did not possess that imperious energy which commands vulgar minds.  He was not listened to.  A shower of stones and shells fell on the monk, who, protecting Thais with his body, praised the Lord whose goodness turned his wounds into caresses.  Despairing of making himself heard, and feeling but too sure that he could not save his friend either by force or persuasion, Nicias resigned himself to the will of the gods—­in whom he had little confidence—­when the idea occurred to him to use a stratagem which his contempt for men had suddenly suggested to him.  He took from his girdle his purse, which was full of gold and silver, for he was a pleasure-loving and charitable man, and running