His appeal was answered by a rapturous shout; the flutes and cymbals piped and clanged, metal cups rang sharply as the drinkers pledged each other, and the girls thumped their tambourines, till the calf-skin droned and the bells in the frames tinkled shrilly.

Olympius thanked them, and bowed on all sides, as he walked from group to group of his adherents.  Seldom, indeed, had his heart beat so high!  His end perhaps was very near, but it should at least be worthy of his life.

He knew how the sunbeam had been reflected so as to kiss the statue’s lips.  For centuries had this startling little scene and the sudden illumination of the niche round the head of the god been worked in precisely the same way at high festivals—­[They are mentioned by Rufinus.]—­these were mere stimulants to the dull souls of the vulgar who needed to be stirred up by the miraculous power of the god, which the elect recognized throughout the universe, in the wondrous co-operation of forces and results in nature, and in the lives of men.  He, for his part, firmly believed in Serapis and his might, and in the prophecies and calculations which declared that his fall must involve the dissolution of the organic world and its relapse into chaos.

Many winds were battling in the air, each one driving the ship of life towards the whirlpool.  To-day or to-morrow—­what matter which?  The threatened cataclysm had no terrors for Olympius.  One thing only was a pang to his vanity:  No succeeding generations would preserve the memory of his heroic struggle and death for the cause of the gods.  But all was not yet lost, and his sunny nature read in the glow of the dying clay the promise and dawn of a brilliant morrow.  If the expected succor should arrive—­if the good cause should triumph here in Alexandria—­if the rising were to be general throughout Greek heathendom, then indeed had he been rightly named Olympius by his parents—­then he would not change places with any god of Olympus—­then the glory of his name, more lasting than bronze or marble, would shine forth like the sun, so long as one Greek heart honored the ancient gods and loved its native land.

This night—­perhaps its last—­should see a grand, a sumptuous feast; he invited his friends and adherents—­the leaders of spiritual life in Alexandria—­to a ‘symposium’, after the manner of the philosophers and dilettanti of ancient Athens, to be held in the great concert-hall of the Serapeum.

How different was its aspect from that of the Bishop’s council-chamber!  The Christians sat within bare walls, on wooden benches, round a plain table; the large room in which Olympius received his supporters was magnificently decorated, and furnished with treasures of art in fine inlaid work, beaten brass and purple stuffs-a hall for kings to meet in.  Thick cushions, covered with lion and panther-skins, tempted fatigue or indolence; and when the hero of the hour joined his guests, after his progress through the precincts, every couch was occupied.  To his right lay Helladius, the famous grammarian and high-priest of Zeus; Porphyrius, the benefactor of the Serapeum, was on his left; even Karnis had been allotted a place in his old friend’s social circle, and greatly appreciated the noble juice of the grape, that was passed round, as well as the eager and intelligent friction of minds, from which he had long been cut off.