Julian.
[Pacing restlessly up and down.] After all, what is he, this Constantius—this Fury-haunted sinner, this mouldering ruin of what was once a man?
Maximus.
Be that his epitaph, Emperor Julian!
Julian.
In his whole treatment of me, has he not been like a rudderless wreck,—now drifting to the left on the current of suspicion, now hurled to the right by the storm-gust of remorse? Did he not stagger, terror-stricken, up to the imperial throne, his purple mantle dripping with my father’s blood? perhaps with my mother’s too?—Had not all my kin to perish that he might sit secure? No, not all; Gallus was spared, and I;—a couple of lives must be left wherewith to buy himself a little pardon. Then he drifted into the current of suspicion again. Remorse wrung from him the title of Caesar for Gallus; then suspicion wrung from him Caesar’s death-warrant. And I? Do I owe him thanks for the life he has hitherto vouchsafed me? One after the other; first Gallus, and then——; every night I have sweated with terror lest the next day should be my last.
Maximus.
Were Constantius and death your worst terrors? Think.[Think.]
Julian.
No, you are right. The priests——! My whole youth has been one long dread of the Emperor and of Christ. Oh, he is terrible, that mysterious—that merciless god-man! At every turn, wheresoever I wished to go, he met me, stark and stern, with his unconditional, inexorable commands.