There sat Serapis, looking down in majestic indifference, as cold and unapproachable as if his sublime dignity was far removed above the petty doings of the crawling humanity at his feet; and the effect was as impressive now as it had been the evening before.  How beautiful—­how marvellously grand and lofty was this work of human hands!  Even the Christians could not repress a low, long-drawn murmur of surprise, admiration, and astonishment.  The heathen were at first silent, overcome by pious awe and ecstasy; but then they broke out in a loud and triumphant shout, and their cries of “Hail to Serapis!” “Serapis, reign forever!” rang from pillar to pillar and echoed from the stony vault of the apse and ceiling.

Gorgo crossed her hands over her bosom as she saw the god revealed in his glorious beauty.  Spotlessly pure, complete and perfect, the noble statue stood before her; an idol indeed, and perishable—­but still divine as a matchless work, wrought by the loving hands of a votary of the god, inspired by the immortals.  She gazed spell-bound on the form which, though human, transcended humanity as eternity transcends time, as the light of the sun transcended the blazing beacon on Pharos; and she said to herself that it was impossible that an irreverent hand should be laid on this supremely lovely statue, crowned with the might of undying beauty.

She saw that even the Bishop drew back a step when the curtain had fallen, and his lips parted involuntarily to utter a cry of admiration like the others; but she saw, too, that he closed them again and pressed them more firmly together; that his eye sparkled with a fiercer light as the shout of the heathen rose to heaven, that the knotted veins on his high forehead swelled with rage as he heard the cry of “Serapis, Hail, all hail!” Then she noted the Comes, as he whispered soothing words in the prelate’s ear, praying him perhaps to spare the statue—­not as an idol, but as a work of art; as he turned from Theophilus with a shrug; and then—­her heart stood still, and she had to cling to the curtain—­he pointed to the statue, with a nod of intelligence to Constantine.  The young officer bowed with military formality and gave a word of command to his men, which was drowned by the wild cries of the heathen as soon as they apprehended with dismay what its import was.

The veterans were stirred.  A subaltern officer, putting the standard he bore into the hands of the man next to him and taking his axe from him instead, rushed towards the statue, gazed up at it—­and then, letting the axe sink, withdrew slowly to rejoin the others who still stood hesitating, looking at each other with doubting and defiant eyes.

Once more Constantine shouted his order, louder and more positively than before; but the men did not move.  The subaltern flung his axe on the ground and the rest followed his example, pointing eagerly to the god, and vehemently adjuring their prefect—­refusing apparently to obey his commands—­for he went to the recalcitrant standard-bearer, a grey-haired veteran, and laying his hand on the man’s shoulder shook him angrily, evidently threatening him and his comrades.