“Right, right—­I know.  Twenty talents—­Pachomius is poor—­twenty talents shall be his, out of my private coffer, if only they are here in time.”

“I would give ten, thirty times as much if they were only here now!” cried the merchant, giving way for the first time to the expression of his real feelings.  “When I began life my father taught me the new superstitions.  Its chains still hang about me; but in this fateful hour I feel more strongly than ever, and I mean to show, that I am faithful to the old gods.  We will not be wanting; but alas! there is no escape for us now if the Imperial party are staunch.  If they fall upon us before Barkas can join us, all is lost; if, on the contrary, Barkas comes at once and in time, there is still some hope; all may yet be well.  What can a party of monks do?  And as yet only our Constantine’s heavy cavalry have come to the assistance of the two legions of the garrison.”

“Our Constantine!” shrieked Damia.  “Whose?  I ask you, whose?  We have nothing to do with that miserable Christian!”

But Gorgo turned upon her at once: 

“Indeed, grandmother,” she exclaimed, quivering with rage, “but we have!  He is a soldier and must do his duty; but he is fondly attached to us.”

“Us, us?” retorted the old woman with a laugh.  “Has he sworn love to you, let me ask?  Has he? and you-do you believe him, simple fool?  I know him, I know him!  Why, for a scrap of bread and a drop of wine from the hand of his priest he would see you and all of us plunged into misery!  But see, here are the messengers.”

Porphyrius gave his instructions to the young men who now entered the hall, hurried them off, clasped Gorgo in a tender embrace and then bent over his mother to kiss her—­a thing he had not done for many a day.  Old Damia laid aside her stick, and taking her son’s face in both her withered hands, muttered a few words which were half a fond appeal and half a magical formula, and then the women were alone.  For a long while both were silent.  The old woman sat sunk in her arm-chair while Gorgo stood with her back against the pedestal of a bust of Plato, gazing meditatively at the ground.  At last it was Damia who spoke, asking to be carried into the women’s rooms.

Gorgo, however, stopped her with a gesture, went close to her and said:  “No, wait a minute, mother; first you must hear what I have to say.”

“What you have to say?” asked her grandmother, shrugging her shoulders.

“Yes.  I have never deceived you; but one thing I have hitherto concealed from you because I was never till this morning sure of it myself—­now I am.  Now I know that I love him.”

“The Christian?” said the old woman, pushing aside a shade that screened her eyes.

“Yes, Constantine; I will not hear you abuse him.”  Damia laughed sharply, and said in a tone of supreme scorn: 

“You will not?  Then you had better stop your ears, my dear, for as long as my tongue can wag. . . .”