“Ah ha!” croaked the old woman in shrill accents.  “You see, you see!  There it is:  the beginning of the end!  Yes—­your cavalry are a powerful force.  They are digging a grave—­wide and deep, with room in it for many:  for you, for me, and for themselves, too, and for their Prefect.—­Call Argus, man, and carry me into the Gynaeconitis—­[The women’s apartment]—­and there tell us what has happened.”  In the women’s room the steward told all he knew, and a sad tale it was; one thing, however, gave him some comfort:  Olympius was at the Serapeunt and had begun to fortify the temple, and garrison it with a strong force of adherents.

Damia had definitively given up all hope, and hardly heeded this part of his story, while on Gorgo’s mind it had a startling effect.  She loved Constantine with all the fervor of a first, and only, and long-suppressed passion; she had repented long since of her little fit of suspicion, and it would have cost her no perceptible effort to humble her pride, to fly to him and pray for forgiveness.  But she could not—­dared not—­now, when everything was at stake, renounce her fidelity to the gods for whose sake she had let him leave her in anger, and to whom she must cling, cost what it might; that would be a base desertion.  If Olympius were to triumph in the struggle she might go to her lover and say:  “Do you remain a Christian, and leave me the creed of my childhood, or else open my heart to yours.”  But, as matters now stood, her first duty was to quell her passion and retrain faithful to the end, even though the cause were lost.  She was Greek to the backbone; she knew it and felt it, and yet her eye had sparkled with pride as she heard the steward’s tale, and she seemed to see Constantine at the head of his horsemen, rushing upon the heathen and driving them to the four winds like a flock of sheep.  Her heart beat high for the foe rather than for her hapless friends—­these were but bruised reeds—­those were the incarnation of victorious strength.

These divided feelings worried and vexed her; but her grandmother had suggested a way of reconciling them.  Where he commanded victory followed, and if the Christians should succeed in destroying the image of Serapis the joints of the world would crack and the earth would crumble away.  She herself was familiar with the traditions and the oracles which with one consent foretold this doom; she had learnt them as an infant from her nurse, from the slave-women at the loom, from learned men and astute philosophers—­and to her the horrible prophecy meant a solution of every contradiction and the bitter-sweet hope of perishing with the man she loved.

As it grew dark another person appeared:  the Moschosphragist—­[The examiner of sacrificed animals]—­from the temple of Serapis, who, every day, examined the entrails of a slaughtered beast for Damia; to-day the augury had been so bad that he was almost afraid of revealing it.  But the old woman, sure of it beforehand, took his soothsaying quite calmly, and only desired to be carried up to her observatory that she might watch the risings of the stars.