Noaks, unlike the Duke, had stopped for an ardent retrospect. He gazed
till the landau was out of his short sight; then, sighing, resumed his
solitary walk.

The landau was rolling into "the Broad," over that ground which had
once blackened under the fagots lit for Latimer and Ridley. It rolled
past the portals of Balliol and of Trinity, past the Ashmolean. From
those pedestals which intersperse the railing of the Sheldonian, the
high grim busts of the Roman Emperors stared down at the fair stranger
in the equipage. Zuleika returned their stare with but a casual
glance. The inanimate had little charm for her.

A moment later, a certain old don emerged from Blackwell's, where he
had been buying books. Looking across the road, he saw, to his
amazement, great beads of perspiration glistening on the brows of
those Emperors. He trembled, and hurried away. That evening, in Common
Room, he told what he had seen; and no amount of polite scepticism
would convince him that it was but the hallucination of one who had
been reading too much Mommsen. He persisted that he had seen what he
described. It was not until two days had elapsed that some credence
was accorded him.

Yes, as the landau rolled by, sweat started from the brows of the
Emperors. They, at least, foresaw the peril that was overhanging
Oxford, and they gave such warning as they could. Let that be
remembered to their credit. Let that incline us to think more gently
of them. In their lives we know, they were infamous, some of them--
"nihil non commiserunt stupri, saevitiae, impietatis." But are they
too little punished, after all? Here in Oxford, exposed eternally and