"Then Cynegius is here, positively here?" asked Porphyrius once more. Karnis assured him that he was, and the merchant, turning to his mother, went on:
"And Olympius has not yet come home. It is always the same thing; he is as rash as a boy. If they should take him! The roads are swarming with monks. There is something astir. Bring out the chariot, Syrus, at once; and tell Atlas to be ready to accompany me. Cynegius here!—Ha, ha! I thank the gods!"
The last exclamation was addressed to a man who at this instant came into the room, muffled up to the eyes. He threw off the hood of his cloak and the wrapper that went round his throat, concealing his long white beard, and as he did so he exclaimed with a gasp for breath:
"Here I am once more!—Cynegius is here and matters look serious my friend."
"You have been to the Museum?"
"Without any obstruction. I found them all assembled. Brave lads. They are all for us and the gods. There are plenty of weapons. The Jews—[At that time about two-fifths of the whole population.]—are not stirring, Onias thinks he may vouch for that; and we must surely be a match for the monks and the imperial cohorts."
"If the gods only stand by us to-day and tomorrow," replied Porphyrius doubtfully.
"For ever, if only the country people do their duty!" cried the other.
"But who is this stranger?"
"The chief of the singers who were here yesterday," replied Gorgo.
"Karnis, the son of Hiero of Tauromenium," said the musician, bowing to the stranger, whose stately figure and handsome, thoughtful head struck him with admiration.