“Well, I certainly have nothing in common with them,” replied the baker.  “But what is true must continue true.  They are quiet, kind folks and punctual in payment, who do no harm and show kindness to many poor creatures.”

“Kindness?” cried the beggar, who had received alms himself from the deacon of the church at Besa, but had also been exhorted to work.  “All the five priests of Sekket of the grotto of Artemis have been led away by them and have basely abandoned the sanctuary of the goddess.  And is it good and kind that they should have poisoned my brother’s children with their potions?”

“Why should they not have killed the children?” asked the soldier.  “I heard of the same things in Syria; and as to this statue, I will never wear my sword again—­”

“Hark! listen to the bold Fuscus,” cried the crowd.  “He has seen much.”

“I will never wear my sword again if they did not knock over the statue in the dark.”

“No, no,” cried the sailor positively.  “It fell with the land that was washed away; I saw it lying there myself.”

“And are you a Christian, too?” asked the soldier, “or do you suppose that I was in jest when I swore by my sword?  I have served in Bithynia, in Syria, and in Judaea.  I know these villains, good people.  There were hundreds of Christians to be seen there who would throw away life like a worn-out shoe because they did not choose to sacrifice to the statues of Caesar and the gods.”

“There, you hear!” cried the beggar.  “And did you see a single man of them among the citizens who set to work to restore the statue to its place?”

“There were none of them there,” said the sailor, who was beginning to share the soldier’s views.

“The Christians threw down the Emperor’s statue,” the beggar shouted to the crowd.  “It is proved, and they shall suffer for it.  Every man who is a friend of the divine Hadrian come with me now and have them out of their houses.”

“No uproar!” interrupted the soldier to the furious man.  “There is the tribune, he will hear you.”

The Roman officer, who now came past with a troop of soldiers to receive the Emperor outside the city, was greeted by the crowd with loud shouting.  He commanded silence and made the soldier tell him what had so violently excited the people.

“Very possibly,” said the tribune, a sinewy and stern-looking man, who, like Fuscus, had served under Tinnius Rufus, and had risen from a sutler to be an officer, “Very possibly—­but where are your proofs?”

“Most of the citizens helped in reerecting the statue, but the Christians held aloof from the work,” cried the beggar.  “There was not one to be seen.  Ask the sailor, my lord; he was by and he can bear witness to it.”

“That certainly is more than suspicious.  This matter must be strictly inquired into.  Pay heed, you people.”

“Here comes a Christian girl!” cried the sailor.