Dada looked on intensely disgusted, and only shook her head when one or another of her companions was sure she felt a shock of earthquake or heard the roll of distant thunder.  She could not explain to herself why she, who was usually timid enough, was exempt from the universal panic though she felt deeply pitiful towards the terrified women and children.  None of them troubled themselves about her; the day dragged on with intolerable slowness, quenching all her gay vivacity, while she was utterly exhausted by the scorching African sun, of which, till now, she had never known the power.  At last, in the afternoon, she found the little garden, which was by this time heated like an oven, quite unbearable, and she looked round for Papias.  The child was sitting on the wall looking at the congregation streaming into the basilica of St. Mark.  Dada followed his example, and when the many-voiced psalms rang out of the open door of the church, she listened to the music, for it seemed long since she had heard any, and after wiping the perspiration from the little boy’s face with her peplos, she pointed to the building and said:  “It must be nice and cool in there.”

“Of course it is,” said Papias.

“It is never too hot in church.  I will tell you what—­we will go there.”  This was a bright idea; for, thought Dada, any place must be pleasanter than this; and she felt strongly tempted, too, to see the inside of one of Agne’s temples and to sing once more, or, at any rate, hear others sing.

“Come along,” she said, and they stole through the deserted house to get into the street by the atrium.  Medius saw them, but he made no attempt to detain them; he had sunk into lethargic indifference.  It was not an hour since he had taken stock of his life and means, setting the small figure of his average income against his hospitality to Dada and her little companion; but then, again, he had calculated that, if all went well, he might make considerable profits out of the girl and the child.  Now, he felt it was all the same to him whether he and his family and Dada met their doom in the house or out of it.

Dada and Papias soon reached the church of St. Mark, the oldest Christian basilica in the city.  It consisted of a vestibule—­the narthex—­and the body of the church, a very long hall, with a flat roof ceiled with stained wood and supported on a double row of quite simple columns.  This space was divided into two parts by a screen of pierced work; the innermost portion had a raised floor or podium, on which stood a table with chairs placed round it in a semicircle.  The centre seat was higher and more richly decorated than the others.  These chairs were unoccupied; a few deacons in ‘talares’ of light-colored brocade were busied about the table.