no longer believed in it.  When the physician turned round and saw her calmly and quietly wiping the cold drops from the sick man’s brow, he said gloomily:  “Of what use is it to shut our eyes like the ostrich.  They are fighting down there for life or death—­we had better prepare for the end.  If they venture—­and they will—­to lay a sacrilegious hand on the god, besiegers and besieged alike—­the whole world together, must perish.”

But Gorgo shook her head.  “No, no,” she cried, with zealous confidence.  “No, Apuleius, Serapis is not what you believe him to be; for, if he were, would he suffer his enemies to overthrow his temple and his image?  Why does he not, at this supreme moment, inspire his worshippers with courage?  I have seen the men—­mere boys—­and the women who have assembled here to fight for him.  They are nothing but drivellers and triflers.  If the master is like his men it serves him right if he is overthrown; to weep for him would be waste of woe!”

“And can the daughter of Porphyrius say this?” exclaimed the leech.

“Yes, Apuleius, yes.  After what I have seen, and heard, and endured this night, I cannot speak otherwise.  It was shameful, horrible, sickening; I could rage at the mere thought of being supposed to be one of that debased crew.  It is disgrace and ignominy even to be named in the same breath!  A god who is served as this god has been is no god of mine!  And you—­you are learned—­a sage and a philosopher—­how can you believe that the God of the Christians when he has conquered and crippled yours, will ever permit Serapis to destroy His world and the men He created?”

Apuleius drew himself up.  “Are you then a Christian?” he asked swiftly and sternly.

But Gorgo could not reply; she colored deeply and Apuleius vehemently repeated his question:  “Then you really are a Christian?”

She looked frankly in his face:  “No,” she said, “I am not; but I wish I were.”

The physician turned away with a shrug; but Gorgo drew a breath of relief, feeling that her avowal had lifted a heavy burthen from her soul.  She hardly knew how the bold and momentous confession had got itself spoken, but she felt that it was the only veracious answer to the physician’s question.

They spoke no more; she was better pleased to remain silent, for her own utterance had opened out to her a new land of promise—­of feeling and of thought.

Her lover henceforth was no longer her enemy; and as the tumult of the struggle by the breach fell on her ear, she could think with joy of his victorious arms.  She felt that this was the purer, the nobler, the better cause; and she rejoiced in the love of which he had spoken as the support and the stay of their future life together—­as sheltering them like a tower of strength and a mighty refuge.  Compared with that love all that she had hitherto held dear or indispensable as gracing life, now seemed vain and worthless; and as she looked at her father’s