But ’tis not on us he frowns. ’Tis on those unhappy wretches who hate him and his sunlit realm.
Yes,—as surely as good or evil fortune affords the true measure of the gods’ favour towards mortals,—so surely is the difference here made manifest between them and us.
Where are the Galileans now? Some under the executioner’s hands, others flying through the narrow streets, ashy pale with terror, their eyes starting from their heads—a shriek between their half-clenched teeth—their hair stiffening with dread, or torn out in despair.
And where are we? Here in Daphne’s pleasant grove, where the dryads’ balmy breath cools our brows,—here, before the glorious temple of the glorious god, lapped in the melodies of flute and lyre,—here, in light, in happiness, in safety, the god himself made manifest among us.
Where is the God of the Galileans? Where is the Jew, the carpenter’s crucified son? Let him manifest himself. Nay, not he!
’Tis fitting, then, that we should throng the sanctuary. There, with my own hands, I will perform the services which are so far from appearing to me mean and unbecoming, that I, on the contrary, esteem them above all others.
[He advances at the head of the procession, through the multitude, towards the temple.
A Voice.
[Calling out in the throng.] Stay, ungodly one!
Julian.