And he finished his harangue by the following unexpected words-- "We have called back from banishment your brothers, who had been hunted forth from the councils of Constantine and Constantius, because we desired to give liberty to all citizens of the Roman Empire. And for the complete suppression of discord, we confide to you, wise teachers, the duty of settling for Galileans a single and unique profession of faith. It is to this end that we have convoked you in our palace. Judge now, and authoritatively decide. In order to afford you full freedom of speech we will withdraw, and await your wise decision." Before anyone had time to grasp the situation, or to answer this strange discourse, Julian, surrounded by his philosophic friends, left the court and disappeared. Everybody was dumb. Someone uttered a long sigh, and in the general silence the beating of pigeons' wings and the rippling of the fountain alone were audible. Suddenly, on the raised marble daïs, which had served as tribune for Julian, appeared the kindly old man at whose provincial bearing and Armenian accent everybody had laughed. His face was red, his eyes burning with vehemence. The Emperor's speech had offended the old bishop. Filled with fearless religious zeal, Eustace advanced towards the members of the council-- "Fathers and brothers," he exclaimed, and his voice was so stern and unshaken that no one thought of laughing at it--"Fathers and brothers, let us part in peace! He who has called us here, to seduce and to insult us, knows neither the canons of the Church nor the rules of the councils. He hates even the name of Jesus! Let us not be a sport to our enemies, let us restrain all angry words! I entreat you, in the name of the eternal God, let us separate in silence!" He pronounced these words in a loud and ringing voice, his eyes fixed on a raised gallery, curtained by purple hangings. The Emperor, surrounded by his Hellenist friends, had just appeared there. A murmur of fright and astonishment ran through the assembly. Julian gazed at Eustace, but the old man sustained his gaze. The Emperor's face grew dark. At that moment the Donatist Purpuris brutally thrust off the bishop and took his place on the tribune. "Do not listen to him," cried Purpuris; "do not let us separate, in scorn of the will of Augustus! The Cæcilians bear a grudge against him, because he has delivered us." "No, in all truth, no, my brothers!" protested Eustace. "Leave us, ye accursed! We are not your brothers! We are the wheat-ears of God--you the straw destined for the burning!..." And waving his hand towards the apostate Emperor Purpuris continued in a solemn tone, as if chanting a nuptial song-- "Behold our saviour! Look on him!... Glory, glory, to the most compassionate and learned Augustus!... Thou shalt trample on the snake and the reptile! Thou shalt conquer the lion, for the angels watch over thee in all thy doings.... Hail!"