this, he felt anger and burning pain, for he felt that his anger was
powerless. To carry off Lygia seemed to him possible; he was almost
sure that he could take her, but he was equally sure that, in view of
her religion, he himself with his bravery was nothing, that his power
was nothing, and that through it he could effect nothing. That Roman
military tribune, convinced that the power of the sword and the fist
which had conquered the world, would command it forever, saw for the
first time in life that beyond that power there might be something else;
hence he asked himself with amazement what it was. And he could not
answer distinctly; through his head flew merely pictures of the
cemetery, the assembled crowd, and Lygia, listening with her whole soul
to the words of the old man, as he narrated the passion, death, and
resurrection of the God-man, who had redeemed the world, and promised it
happiness on the other shore of the Styx.

When he thought of this, chaos rose in his head. But he was brought out
of this chaos by Chilo, who fell to lamenting his own fate. He had
agreed to find Lygia. He had sought for her in peril of his life, and
he had pointed her out. But what more do they want? Had he offered to
carry the maiden away? Who could ask anything like this of a maimed man
deprived of two fingers, an old man, devoted to meditation, to science,
and virtue? What would happen were a lord of such dignity as Vinicius
to meet some mishap while bearing the maiden away? It is true that the
gods are bound to watch over their chosen ones,--but have not such
things happened more than once, as if the gods were playing games
instead of watching what was passing in the world? Fortune is
blindfold, as is well known, and does not see even in daylight; what
must the case be at night? Let something happen,--let that Lygian bear
hurl a millstone at the noble Vinicius, or a keg of wine, or, still
worse, water,--who will give assurance that instead of a reward blame