her from off the face of the redeemed earth and destroy the seducer of souls forever.  “Down with the idols!  Down with Serapis!  Down with the heathen!” Their shouts thundered and bellowed all about Agne; but, just as the uproar and crush were at the worst, a tall and majestic figure appeared on a balcony above the cross and extended his hand in calm and dignified benediction towards the seething mass of humanity.  As he raised it all present, including Ague, bowed and bent the knee.

Agne felt, knew, that this stately man was the Bishop whom she sought, but she did not point him out to her little brother, for his aspect was that of some proud sovereign rather than of “the good, kind man” of whom she had dreamed.  She could never dare to force her way into the presence of this great lord!  How should the ruler over a million souls find time or patience for her and her trivial griefs?

However, there must be within his dwelling sundry presbyters and deacons, and she would address herself to one of them, as soon as the crowd had dispersed enough for her to make her way to the door beneath the cross.  Twenty times at least did she renew her efforts, but she made very small progress; most of the monks, as she tried to squeeze past them, roughly pushed her back; one, on whose arm she ventured to lay her hand, begging him to make way for her, broke out into shrieks as though a serpent had stung him, and when the crush brought her into contact with the crown-bearer he thrust her away exclaiming: 

“Away woman!  Do not touch me, spawn of Satan tool of the evil one! or I will tread you under foot!”

Retreat had been as impossible as progress, and long hours went by which to her seemed like days; still she felt no fatigue, only alarm and disgust, and, more than anything else, an ardent desire to reach the Bishop’s palace and take counsel of a priest.  It was long past noon when a diversion took place which served at any rate to interest and amuse the crying child.

On the platform above the doorway Cynegius came forth—­Cynegius, the Emperor’s delegate; a stout man of middle height, with a shrewd round head and a lawyer’s face.  State dignitaries, Consuls and Prefects had, at this date, ceased to wear the costume that had marked the patricians of old Rome—­a woollen toga that fell in broad and dignified folds from the shoulders; a long, close-fitting robe had taken its place, of purple silk brocade with gold flowers.  On the envoy’s shoulder blazed the badge of the highest officials, a cruciform ornament of a peculiarly thick and costly tissue.  He greeted the crowd with a condescending bow, a herald blew three blasts on the tuba, and then Cynegius, with a wave of his hand introduced his private secretary who stood by his side, and who at once opened a roll he held and shouted at the top of a ringing voice: 

“Silence in Caesar’s name!”

The trumpet then sounded for the fourth time, and silence so complete fell on the crowded square that the horses of the mounted guard in front of the Prefect’s house could be heard snorting and champing.