That evening was a hideous one in the palace of Orestes. His agonies of disappointment, rage, and terror were at once so shameful and so fearful, that none of his slaves dare approach him; and it was not till late that his confidential secretary, the Chaldean eunuch, driven by terror of the exasperated Catholics, ventured into the tiger’s den, and represented to him the immediate necessity for action.
What could he do? He was committed—Cyril only knew how deeply. What might not the wily archbishop have discovered? What might not he pretend to have discovered? What accusations might he not send off on the spot to the Byzantine Court?
‘Let the gates be guarded, and no one allowed to leave the city,’ suggested the Chaldee.
‘Keep in monks? as well keep in rats! No; we must send off a counter-report, instantly.’
‘What shall I say, your Excellency?’ quoth the ready scribe, pulling out pen and inkhorn from his sash.
‘What do I care? Any lie which comes to hand. What in the devil’s name are you here for at all, but to invent a lie when I want one?’
‘True, most noble,’ and the worthy sat meekly down to his paper.... but did not proceed rapidly.
‘I don’t see anything that would suit the emergency, unless I stated, with your august leave, that Cyril, and not you, celebrated the gladiatorial exhibition; which might hardly appear credible?’
Orestes burst out laughing, in spite of himself. The sleek Chaldee smiled and purred in return. The victory was won; and Orestes, somewhat more master of himself, began to turn his vulpine cunning to the one absorbing question of the saving of his worthless neck.
‘No, that would be too good. Write, that we had discovered a plot on Cyril’s part to incorporate the whole of the African churches (mind and specify Carthage and Hippo) under his own jurisdiction, and to throw off allegiance to the Patriarch of Constantinople, in case of Heraclian’s success.’