Libanius knelt, still retaining his arrogant air—
"Let me depart, Augustus. I can no longer endure life at your Court. My patience is exhausted. Every day there is some new insult to put up with...." and he spoke at length of rewards, the moneys received by him no longer, of ingratitude in view of his services, and the splendid panegyrics with which he had glorified Cæsar.
But Julian, unheeding, gazed at the celebrated orator with disgust. Could this really be the same Libanius whose speeches he had admired so much in youth? What baseness! what vanity!
Then all the philosophers began speaking at once. Their voices rose, they mutually accused each other of impiety, debauchery, peculation, repeating the most fatuous scandals. The scene was a petty civil war, not of the wise, but between parasites waxed fat through prosperity, ready to fly at each other's throats through pride, anger, and idleness.
At last the Emperor uttered a word which brought them back to their senses—
"Masters!"
All were silenced like so many frightened magpies.
"Masters!" repeated Julian, with bitter irony, "I have heard you long enough. Permit me to relate you a fable: 'An Egyptian king had a set of tame apes, trained to perform a war-dance of Epirus. They were costumed in helmets and masks; their tails were hidden under the Imperial purple, and while they were dancing it was difficult to believe they were not human. This spectacle gave general delight for years. But on one occasion one of the spectators happened to throw on the stage a handful of nuts! And what happened? The warriors tore off their purple and masks, readjusted their tails, dropped on all fours, and began to bite each other.' How do you like my fable, masters?"
Everybody was silent. Suddenly Sallustius took the Emperor by the hand and pointed to the open window. Under the sombre masses of clouds a reddish light, tossed by a violent wind, seemed slowly spreading.
"Fire! fire!" all present cried.