"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."

"Right, right--I know. Twenty talents--Pachomius is poor--twenty talents
shall be his, out of my private coffer, if only they are here in time."

"I would give ten, thirty times as much if they were only here now!"
cried the merchant, giving way for the first time to the expression of
his real feelings. "When I began life my father taught me the new
superstitions. Its chains still hang about me; but in this fateful hour
I feel more strongly than ever, and I mean to show, that I am faithful to
the old gods. We will not be wanting; but alas! there is no escape for
us now if the Imperial party are staunch. If they fall upon us before
Barkas can join us, all is lost; if, on the contrary, Barkas comes at
once and in time, there is still some hope; all may yet be well. What
can a party of monks do? And as yet only our Constantine's heavy cavalry
have come to the assistance of the two legions of the garrison."

"Our Constantine!" shrieked Damia. "Whose? I ask you, whose? We have
nothing to do with that miserable Christian!"