knights, senators,
soldiers, common people, vestals and courtesans, in woollen hoods, in
silk maniples, in tawny tunics with aigrettes of precious stones, tufts
of feathers and lictors' rods; and all this assemblage, muttering,
exclaiming, tumultuous and frantic, stuns him like an immense tub
boiling over. In the midst of the arena, upon an altar, smokes a vessel
of incense.

The people who surround him are Christians, delivered up to the wild
beasts. The men wear the red cloak of the high-priests of Saturn, the
women the fillets of Ceres. Their friends distribute fragments of their
garments and rings. In order to gain admittance into the prison, they
require, they say, a great deal of money; but what does it matter? They
will remain till the end.

Amongst these consolers Antony observes a bald man in a black tunic, a
portion of whose face is plainly visible. He discourses with them on the
nothingness of the world, and the happiness of the Elect. Antony is
filled with transports of Divine love. He longs for the opportunity of
sacrificing his life for the Saviour, not knowing whether he is himself
one of these martyrs. But, save a Phrygian, with long hair, who keeps
his arms raised, they all have a melancholy aspect. An old man is
sobbing on a bench, and a young man, who is standing, is musing with
downcast eyes.

The old man has refused to pay tribute at the angle of a cross-road,
before a statue of Minerva; and he regards his companions with a look
which signifies:

"You ought to succour me! Communities sometimes make arrangements by
which they might be left in peace. Many amongst you have even obtained
letters falsely declaring that you have offered sacrifice to idols."

He asks:

"Is it not Peter of Alexandria who has regulated what one ought to do
when one is overcome by tortures?"

Then, to himself:

"Ah! this is very hard at my age! my infirmities render me so feeble!
Perchance, I might have lived to another winter!"

The recollection of his little garden moves him to tears; and he
contemplates the side of the altar.

The young man, who had disturbed by violence a feast of Apollo, murmurs:

"My only chance was to fly to the mountains!"

"The soldiers would have caught you," says one of the brethren.

"Oh! I could have done like Cyprian; I should have come back; and the
second time I should have had more strength, you may be sure!"

Then he thinks of the countless days he should have lived, with a