gray hairs!'

And the poor old man flung himself at her feet, and clasped her
knees imploringly.

Tenderly she lifted him up, and wound her long arms round him, and
laid his head on her white shoulder, and her tears fell fast upon
his gray hair; but her lip was firm and determined.

'Think of my pride--my glory in your glory; think of me .... Not
for myself! You know I never cared for myself!' sobbed out the old
man. 'But to die seeing you empress!'

'Unless I died first in childbed, father, as many a woman dies who
is weak enough to become a slave, and submit to tortures only fit
for slaves.'

'But--but--said the old man, racking his bewildered brains for some
argument far enough removed from nature and common sense to have an
effect on the beautiful fanatic--'but the cause of the gods! What
you might do for it! .... Remember Julian!'

Hypatia's arms dropped suddenly. Yes; it was true! The thought
flashed across her mind with mingled delight and terror ....
Visions of her childhood rose swift and thick--temples--sacrifices--
priesthoods--colleges--museums! What might she not do? What might
she not make Africa? Give her ten years of power, and the hated
name of Christian might be forgotten, and Athene Polias, colossal in
ivory and gold, watching in calm triumph over the harbours of a
heathen Alexandria .... But the price!