"You seem to be drunk, old man."
Gorgius, in no wise perturbed, continued to rub the back of his neck.
"Drunk? I don't think so. But I may have tossed off five cups or so, for the sake of the celebrations; and as to that, I drink more through sorrow than merriment. Yes, my son, may the Olympians have you in their keeping!... Who are you? By your dress perhaps a wandering philosopher, or a professor from the schools of Antioch?"
The Emperor smiled and nodded his head in acquiescence. He wished to make the priest talk freely.
"You have hit it. I am a teacher."
"Christian?"
"No, Hellenist."
"Ah, that's good. There are many others of your way of thinking who hang about this neighbourhood."
"You have not yet answered me as to where the people are: whether many victims have been sent from Antioch; whether the choirs are ready."
"Victims? Small thanks for victims," said the old man, laughing and stumbling so violently that he nearly tumbled down. "Many's the long year, my brother, since we saw that kind of thing!... Since the time of Constantine...." Gorgius snapped his fingers despairingly and whistled. "It is all over—done for!... Phut!... Men have forgotten the gods. Not only have we no victims, but we don't even get a handful of wheat to cook a cake; not a grain of incense, not a drop of oil for the lamps.... There's nothing for it but to go to bed and die!... Yes, my son! may the Olympians protect you!... The monks have taken everything!... and they fight each other; they're rolling in fat.... Our tale is told.... Ah! bad times these. And you say 'Don't drink!' But it's hard not to drink when one suffers. If I didn't drink a bit I should have hanged myself long ago."