“If it isn’t the beginning of the Gospel of John! Thy impiety is worse than thy poetry!”
Apollo cast the scroll indignantly to the ground. His countenance wore an expression so similar to that with which he is represented in act to smite the Python, that Nonnus judged it prudent to catch up his manuscript and hold it shield-wise before his face.
“Thou doest well,” said Apollo, laughing bitterly; “that rampart is indeed impenetrable to my arrows.”
Nonnus seemed about to fall prostrate, when a sharp rap came to the door.
“That is the Governor’s knock,” he exclaimed. “Do not forsake me utterly, O Phœbus!” But as he turned to open the door, Apollo vanished. The Governor entered, a sagacious, good-humoured-looking man in middle life.
“Who was with thee just now?” he asked. “Methought I heard voices.”
“Merely the Muse,” explained Nonnus, “with whom I am wont to hold nocturnal communings.”
“Indeed!” replied the Governor. “Then the Muse has done well to take herself off, and will do even better not to return. Bishops must have no flirtations with Muses, heavenly or earthly—not that I am now altogether certain that thou wilt be a bishop.”
“How so?” asked Nonnus, not without a feeling of relief.
“Imagine, my dear friend,” returned the Governor, “who should turn up this evening but that sordid anchorite Pachymius, to whom the see was promised indeed, but who was reported to have been devoured by vermin in the desert. The rumour seemed so highly plausible that it must be feared that sufficient pains were not taken to verify it—cannot have been, in fact; for, as I said, here he comes, having been brought, as he affirms, through the air by an angel. Little would it have signified if he had come by himself, but he is accompanied by three hundred monks carrying cudgels, who threaten an insurrection if he is not consecrated on the spot. My friend the Archbishop and I are at our wits’ end: we have set our hearts on having a gentleman over the diocese, but we cannot afford to have tumults reported at Constantinople. At last, mainly through the mediation of a sable personage whom no one seems to know, but who approves himself most intelligent and obliging, the matter is put off till to-morrow, when them and Pachymius are to compete for the bishopric in public on conditions not yet settled, but which our swarthy friend undertakes to arrange to every one’s satisfaction. So keep up a good heart, and don’t run away in any case. I know thou art timid, but remember that there is no safety for thee but in victory. If thou yieldest thou wilt be beheaded by me, and if thou art defeated thou wilt certainly be burned by Pachymius.”