'Ah, you recollect that?--and how the barbarian papas used to
grumble, till I had to crucify one or two, eh? That was something
like life! I love those out-of-the-way stations, where nobody asks
questions: but here one might as well live among the monks in
Nitria. Here comes Canidia! Ah, the answer? Hand it here, my queen
of go-betweens!'

Orestes read it--and his countenance fell.

'I have won?'

'Out of the room, slaves! and no listening!'

'I have won then?'

Orestes tossed the letter across to him, and Raphael read--

'The immortal gods accept no divided worship; and he who would
command the counsels of their prophetess must remember that they
will vouchsafe to her no illumination till their lost honours be
restored. If he who aspires to be the lord of Africa dare trample
on the hateful cross, and restore the Caesareum to those for whose
worship it was built--if he dare proclaim aloud with his lips, and
in his deeds, that contempt for novel and barbarous superstitions,
which his taste and reason have already taught him, then he would
prove himself one with whom it were a glory to labour, to dare, to
die in a great cause. But till then--'

And so the letter ended.