"The 'idol,'" he interrupted, "'idol' is your word. For what imbeciles do you take us, if you think that we worship the matter that represents our gods, metal, stone, or wood. All your preachers preach this, but it is a lie. We worship not these things, but the soul, the living soul of beauty in these models of the purest human beauty. It is not we, the idolaters, but you—you, who devour each other like wild beasts for the sake of an iota; you, who kiss the rotten bones of criminals punished for breaking the Roman laws; you, who call the fratricide Constantius an 'Eternal Holiness!' To deify the splendid sculptures of Phidias, which breathe Olympian beauty and goodness, is that less reasonable than to bow before two crossed beams of wood, a shameful instrument of torture? Must one blush for you, pity you, or hate you? It is the pitch of mad degradation for our country, to see sons of the Hellenes, who read Plato and Homer, rushing to an outcast tribe, a tribe almost blotted out by Vespasian and Titus, in order to deify a dead man!... And you still dare to accuse us of idolatry!"
The arch-priest imperturbably stroked his long beard, and looking at Julian askance, wiped the perspiration from his glistening forehead.
Then the Emperor said to Priscus the philosopher—
"My friend, accomplish the Delian mysteries with which you are familiar. We must purify the Temple of Apollo. He will return to his dwelling, and once we have taken away the stone which seals the spring, the oracle will speak again."
The arch-priest terminated the interview with a deep bow and the same obsequious manner, in which an invincible tenacity could be felt—
"Let your will be done, Cæsar. We are the children, you are the father; but there is no power above the power of God."
"Oh, you hypocrites, I know your obedience and your humility! Your humility is the serpent's fang! Why not struggle against me at least like men?"
Julian turned round to depart, when a little old man and woman issued from the crowd and prostrated themselves at his feet. They were poorly but cleanly dressed, and bore a surprising resemblance to each other, reminding him of Philemon and Baucis.
"Protect us, just Cæsar," whispered the old man. "We have a little house near Antioch at the foot of the Stavrinus. We've lived there twenty years, and now the town-senators, the decurions, are come...." The old man clasped his hands despairingly, and the old woman, imitating him, did the same.
"The decurions come and say, 'This house does not belong to you!'—'What—the Lord be with you—we've been here twenty years!'—'Yes; but you had no right. The land belongs to the temple of the god Æsculapius, and your house is built with the temple-stones. It must return to Æsculapius.' What does this mean?... Have mercy, all-powerful Augustus!"