“You were born into stirring times,” he said to her, “but under a good sign.  Two worlds are in collision; which shall survive?—­For you, my darling, I have but one wish:  May you be happy!”

He left the room and the merchant paced up and down lost in gloomy thoughts.  Presently, as he caught his mother’s eye fixed uneasily upon him, he murmured, less to her than to himself:  “If he can think thus of what the end will be, who can still dare to hope?” Damia drew herself up in her chair.

“I,” she exclaimed passionately, “I—­I dare, and I do hope and trust in the future.  Is everything to perish which our forefathers planned and founded?  Is this dismal superstition to overwhelm and bury the world and all that is bright and beautiful, as the lava stream rolled over the cities of Vesuvius?  No, a thousand times no!  Our retrograde and cowardly generation, which has lost all heart to enjoy life in sheer dread of future annihilation, may perhaps be doomed by the gods, as was that of Deucalion’s day.  Well—­if so, what must be must!  But such a world as they dream of never can, never will last.  Let them succeed in their monstrous scheme! if the Temple of temples, the House of Serapis, were to be in ashes and the image of the mighty god to be dashed to pieces, what then. . . .  I say what then?  Then indeed everything will be at an end—­we, everybody; but they too, they, too, will perish.”

She clenched her fist with hatred and revenge and went on:  “I know what I know—­there are legible and infallible signs, and it is given to me to interpret them, and I tell you:  It is true, unerringly true, as every Alexandrian child has learnt from its nurse:  When Serapis falls the earth will collapse like a dry puff-ball under a horse’s hoof.  A hundred oracles have announced it, it is written in the prophecies of the heavenly bodies, and in the scroll of Fate.  Let them be!  Let it come!  The end is sweet to those who, in the hour of death, can see the enemy thrust the sword into his own breast.”

The old woman sank back panting and gasping for breath, but Gorgo hastened to support her in her arms and she soon recovered.  Hardly had she opened her eyes again than, seeing her son still in the room, she went on angrily: 

“You—­here still?  Do you think there is any time to spare?  They will be waiting, waiting for you!  You have the key and they need weapons.”

“I know what I am about,” replied Porphyrius calmly.  “All in good time.  I shall be on the spot long before the youngsters have assembled.  Cyrus will bring me the pass-words and signs; I shall send off the messengers, and then I shall still be in time for action.”

“Messengers!  To whom?”

“To Barkas.  He is at the head of more than a thousand Libyan peasants and slaves.  I shall send one, too, to Pachomius to bid him win us over adherents among the Biamite fishermen and the population of the eastern Delta.”