ious to
afford help, these men, like the Samaritan of old, went up at their own
peril to succour a brother in affliction. They searched every portion
of the empty building, but the object of their sympathy was nowhere to
be seen. They called, but heard no answering sound, save the dirging of
the winds of early morning through the ruined halls, which but a short
time since had resounded with the eloquence of the once illustrious
priest. Except a few night-birds, already sheltered by the deserted
edifice, not a living being moved in what was once the temple of the
Eastern world. Ulpius was gone.

These events took place in the year 389. In 390, Pagan ceremonies were
made treason by the laws throughout the whole Roman Empire.

From that period the scattered few who still adhered to the ancient
faith became divided into three parties; each alike insignificant,
whether considered as openly or secretly inimical to the new religion
of the State at large.

The first party unsuccessfully endeavoured to elude the laws
prohibitory of sacrifices and divinations by concealing their religious
ceremonies under the form of convivial meetings.

The second preserved their ancient respect for the theory of Paganism,
but abandoned all hope and intention of ever again accomplishing its
practice. By such timely concessions many were enabled to
preserve--and some even to attain--high and lucrative employments as
officers of the State.

The third retired to their homes, the voluntary exiles of every
religion; resigning the practice of their old worship as a necessity,
and shunning the communion of Christians as a matter of choice.

Such were the unimportant divisions into which the last remnants of the
once powerful Pagan community now subsided; but to none of them was the
ruined and degraded Ulpius ever attached.

For five weary years--dating from the epoch of the prohibition of
Paganism--he wandered through the Empire, visiting in every country the
ruined shrines of his deserted worship--a friendless, hopeless,
solitary man!

Throughout the whole of Europe, and all of Asia and the East that still
belonged to Rome, he bent his slow and toilsome course. In the fertile
valleys of Gaul, over the burning sands of Africa, through the
sun-bright cities of Spain, he travelled--unfriended as a man under a
curse, lonely as a second Cain. Never for an instant did the
remembrance of his ruined projects desert his memory, or his mad
de