Once Torquatus looked up and started. He thought he saw the good Polycarp behind his adversary’s chair. He rubbed his eyes, and saw it was only Corvinus staring at him. All his skill was now put forth. Conscience had retreated; faith was wavering; grace had already departed. For the demon of covetousness, of rapine, of dishonesty, of recklessness, had come back, and brought with him seven spirits worse than himself, to that cleansed but ill-guarded soul; and as they entered in, all that was holy, all that was good, departed. At length, worked up, by repeated losses and draughts of wine, into a frenzy, after he had drawn frequently upon the heavy purse which Fabiola had given him, he threw the purse itself upon the table. Fulvius coolly opened it, emptied it, counted the money, and placed opposite an equal heap of gold. Each prepared himself for a final throw. The fatal bones fell; each glanced silently upon their spots. Fulvius drew the money towards himself. Torquatus fell upon the table, his head buried and hidden within his arms. Fulvius motioned Corvinus out of the room. Torquatus beat the ground with his foot; then moaned, next gnashed his teeth and growled; then put his fingers in [Illustration: The Ruins of the Roman Forum, as they are To-day.] his hair, and begun to pull and tear it. A voice whispered in his ear, “Are you a Christian?” Which of the seven spirits was it? surely the worst. “It is hopeless,” continued the voice; “you have disgraced your religion, and you have betrayed it too.” “No, no,” groaned the despairing wretch. “Yes; in your drunkenness you have told us all: quite enough to make it impossible for you ever to return to those you have betrayed.” “Begone, begone,” exclaimed piteously the tortured sinner. “They will forgive me still. God----” “Silence; utter not His name: you are degraded, perjured, hopelessly lost. You are a beggar; to-morrow you must beg your bread. You are an outcast, a ruined prodigal and gamester. Who will look at you? will your Christian friends? And nevertheless you _are_ a Christian; you will be torn to pieces by some cruel death for it; yet you will not be worshipped by them as one of their martyrs. You are a hypocrite, Torquatus, and nothing more.” “Who is it that is tormenting me?” he exclaimed, and looked up. Fulvius was standing with folded arms at his side. “And if all this be true, what is it to you? What have you to say more to me?” he continued.