He saw that the mutiny was dangerous and in earnest, observing that the legionaries did not interrupt each other, but shouted unanimously, and became suddenly hushed, as if their action had been concerted beforehand. There was either a deafening hubbub, or absolute silence. Finally, Julian, with an effort that might well have been thought sincere-- "My children! my dear comrades! behold me ... I am yours in life and in death. I can refuse you nothing!" "Crown him! The diadem!" they cried, triumphantly. But no diadem was to be found. Strombix proposed-- "Let Augustus order that his wife's necklet of pearls be brought here!" Julian answered that a woman's ornament would be unfitting, and an ill presage with which to inaugurate a reign. But the men were unsatisfied. They insisted on seeing a sign of regality shining on the head of their chosen, to make him their Emperor indeed. One of the legionaries snatched from his war-horse the phaleræ, or forehead trapping, with its string of metal disks, for the crowning of Augustus. But neither did this please him, for the ornament stank with the sweat of the horse. Everyone cast about to find another decoration, and at last the standard-bearer of the Petulant legion, the Sarmatian Aragaris, pulled from his neck the metal chain denoting his rank, and Julian wound it twice round his own head. This chain made him Emperor of Rome. "Hoist him on a shield! on a shield!" shouted the soldiery. Aragaris tendered his round buckler. Hundreds of arms heaved the Emperor. He saw a sea of helmeted heads, and heard, like the rolling of thunder, the exultant cry-- "Glory to Julian, the divine Augustus!" It seemed the will of destiny. One by one the torches were extinguished. The clamour died away; and the eastern sky was barred with soft white bands. The dark and dull mass of the palace-towers became clear in all its ugliness; a single lighted window was still visible. Julian guessed that this must be the light in the cell where Helena lay dying. And when at dawn the wearied army dispersed, he went to the bedside of his wife. It was too late. The dead woman lay quietly on her virgin couch; the lips severely closed. Julian felt no remorse, but painful curiosity moved him as he gazed at the dark face of his wife, wondering-- "What was that last desire? What did she wish to say to me?" XXII