tearing off roofs, defacing marbles, and demolishing
capitals. The rest of the buildings remained uninjured, and grander
even now in the wildness of ruin than ever it had been in the
stateliness of perfection and strength.

But the most important achievement still remained, the death-wound of
Paganism was yet to be struck--the idol Serapis, which had ruled the
hearts of millions, and was renowned in the remotest corners of the
Empire, was to be destroyed! A breathless silence pervaded the
Christian ranks as they filled the hall of the god. A superstitious
dread, to which they had hitherto thought themselves superior, overcame
their hearts, as a single soldier, bolder than his fellows, mounted by
a ladder to the head of the colossal statue, and struck at its cheek
with an axe. The blow had scarcely been dealt when a deep groan was
heard from the opposite wall of the apartment, succeeded by a noise of
retreating footsteps, and then all was silent again. For a few minutes
this incident stayed the feet of those who were about to join their
companion in the mutilation of the idol; but after an interval their
hesitation vanished, they dealt blow after blow at the statue, and no
more groans followed--no more sounds were heard, save the wild echoes
of the stroke of hammer, crowbar, and club, resounding through the
lofty hall. In an incredibly short space of time the image of Serapis
lay in great fragments on the marble floor. The multitude seized on
the limbs of the idol and ran forth to drag them in triumph through the
streets. Yet a few minutes more, and the ruins were untenanted, the
temple was silent--Paganism was destroyed!

Throughout the ravaging course of the Christians over the temple, they
had been followed with dogged perseverance, and at the same time with
the most perfect impunity, by the only Pagan of all his brethren who
had not sought safety by flight. This man, being acquainted with every
private passage and staircase in the sacred building, was enabled to be
secretly present at each fresh act of demolition, in whatever part of
the edifice it might be perpetrated. From hall to hall, and from room
to room, he tracked with noiseless step and glaring eye the movements
of the Christian mob--now hiding himself behind a pillar, now passing
into concealed cavities in the walls, now looking down from
imperceptible fissures in the roof; but, whatever his situation,
invariably watching from it, with the same i