“Terrible! horrible!” he exclaimed with a shudder, as he recalled the feelings of that momentous instant.  She looked sympathetically into his eyes.

“And you did it,” she cried, “because you felt that you must and will be wholly what you profess to be?  It is right—­the only right; I feel it so.  I will try to imitate you, and rise above the half-heartedness which is the bane of existence, and which makes the firm path of life a trembling, swaying bridge.  I am yours, wholly yours; I have none other gods but yours, and for love of you I will learn to love your God—­for you have often and often called him a God of Love.”

“And He is a God of Love!” cried Constantine, “and you will know him and confess him even without teaching; for our Saviour lives in every heart that is filled with love.  Oh!  Gorgo, I have destroyed that beautiful idol, but I will let you see that even a Christian can duly value and cherish beauty in his home and in his heart.”

“I am sure of it,” she exclaimed joyfully.  “The world goes on its way and does not quake, in spite of the fall of Serapis; but I feel as though in my inmost soul a world had perished and a new one was created, nobler and purer, and perhaps even more lovely than the old one!”

He pressed her hand to his lips; she signed to him to follow her and led the way to her father’s couch.  Porphyrius was sitting up, supported in the physician’s arms; his eyes were open, and as they entered he greeted them with a faint smile.

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SERAPIS

By Georg Ebers

Volume 6.

CHAPTER XXV.

The spacious Hippodrome was filled with some thousands of spectators.  At first many rows of seats had been left vacant, though usually on the eve of the great races, the people would set out soon after midnight and every place would be filled long before the games began; indeed the upper tiers of the tribune, which were built of wood and were free to all comers, with standing-room behind, were commonly so crowded early in the morning that the crush ended in a free fight.

On this occasion, the storm of the previous night, the anxiety caused by the conflict round the Serapeum, and the prevalent panic as to the approaching end of the world, kept great numbers away from their favorite diversion; but when the sky recovered its radiant blue, and when it became known that the statue of Serapis had escaped uninjured in the siege of his sanctuary—­when Cynegius, the Imperial legate, and Evagrius, the city-prefect, had entered the theatre with much pomp, followed by several senators and ladies and gentlemen of rank-Christians, Heathen, and Jews—­the most timid took courage; the games had been postponed for an hour, and before the first team was led into the arched shed whence the chariots started, the seats, though less densely packed than usual, were amply filled.