hat suppers he gave! a fine specimen of the Lucullus type;
yet he was always advocating the lictor and the _commentariensis_ in the
instance of the Christian. No wonder; his wife and son were disgracing him
in the eyes of the whole world by frequenting the meetings of these
Christians. However, I agree with Decius, they must be put down. They are
not formidable, but they are an eyesore."

Here the rushing of the water-clock which measured time in the
neighbouring square, ceased, signifying thereby that the night was getting
on. Juba had already crept into the dark closet which served him for a
sleeping-place; had taken off his sandals, and loosened his belt; had
wrapt the serpent he had about him round his neck, and was breathing
heavily. Jucundus made the parting libation, and Cornelius took his leave.
Aristo rose too; and Jucundus, accompanying them to the entrance, paid the
not uncommon penalty of his potations, for the wine mounted to his head,
and he returned into the room, and sat him down again with an impression
that Aristo was still at table.

"My dear boy," he said, "Agellius is but a wet Christian; that's all, not
obstinate, like his brother there. 'Twas his father; the less we say about
him the better; he's gone. The Furies make his bed for him! an odious set!
Their priests, little ugly men. I saw one when I was a boy at Carthage. So
unlike your noble Roman Saliares, or your fine portly priest of Isis, clad
in white, breathing odours like spring flowers; men who enjoyed this life,
not like that sour hypocrite. He was as black as an Ethiopian, and as
withered as a Saracen, and he never looked you in the face. And, after
all, the fellow must die for his religion, rather than put a few grains of
golden incense on the altar of great Jove. Jove's the god for me; a
glorious, handsome, curly god--but they are all good, all the gods are
good. There's Bacchus, he's a good, comfortable god, though a sly,
treacherous fellow--a treacherous fellow. There's Ceres, too; Pomona; the
Muses; Astarte, too, as they call her here; all good;--and Apollo, though
he's somewhat too hot in this season, and too free with his bow. He gave
me a bad fever once. Ah! life's precious, most precious; so I felt it
then, when I was all but gone to Pluto. Life never returns, it's like
water spilt; you can't gather it up. It is dispersed into the elements, to
the four winds. Ah! there's something more there than I can tell; more
than all your ph