But he went no further; for his hearers—­many of whom knew the brilliant, generous Dion, and Barine, the fair singer at the last Adonis festival—­gave the orator tokens of their indignation, which were all the more pitiless because of the pleasure they felt in seeing an expert vanquished by an untrained foe.  The wordy war would not have ended so quickly, however, had not restlessness and alarm taken possession of the crowd.  The shout, “Back! disperse!” ran through the multitude, and directly after the trampling of hoofs and the commands of the leader of a troop of Libyan cavalry were heard.  The matter at stake was not sufficiently important to induce the populace to offer an armed force resistance which might have entailed serious danger.  Besides, the blustering war of tongues had reached a merry close, and loud laughter blended with the shouts of fear and warning; for the surging throng had swept with unexpected speed towards the fountain and plunged Philostratus into the basin.  Whether this was due to the wrath of some enemy, or to mere accident, could not be learned; the vain efforts of the luckless man to crawl out of the water up the smooth marble were so comical, and his gestures, after helping hands had dragged him dripping upon the pavement of the square, were so irresistibly funny, that more laughing than angry voices were heard, especially when some one cried, “His hands were soiled by blackening Didymus, so the washing will do him good.”  “Some wise physicians flung him into the water,” retorted an other; “he needed the cold application after the blows Dion dealt him.”

The Regent, who had sent the troop of horsemen to drive the crowd away from Didymus’s house, might well be pleased that the violent measure encountered so little resistance.

The throng quickly scattered, and was speedily attracted by something new at the Theatre of Dionysus—­the zither-player Anaxenor had just announced from its steps that Cleopatra and Antony had won the most brilliant victory, and had sung to the accompaniment of his lute a hymn which had deeply stirred all hearts.  He had composed it long before, and seized the first opportunity—­the report had reached his ears while breakfasting in Kanopus—­to try its effect.

As soon as the square began to empty, Barine left her post of observation.  It was long since her heart had throbbed so violently.  Not one of the many suitors for her favour had been so dear to her as Dion; but she now felt that she loved him.

What he had just done for her and her grandfather was worthy of the deepest gratitude; it proved that he did not come to her house, like most of her guests, merely to while away the evening hours.

It had been no small matter for the young aristocrat, in the presence of the whole multitude, to enter into a debate with the infamous Philostratus, and how well he had succeeded in silencing the dreaded orator!  Besides, Dion had even taken her part against his own powerful uncle, and perhaps by his deed drawn upon himself the hostility of his enemy’s brother, Alexas, Antony’s powerful favourite.  Barine might assure herself that he, who was the peer of any Macedonian noble in the city, would have done this for no one else.