"Yes; they call him the martyr Babylas. Ten years ago the brother of the Emperor Julian, Cæsar Gallus, transferred the bones of this Babylas from Antioch into this wood, and had a superb sarcophagus made for him. From that day the oracle ceased. The temple was sullied and the god departed." "What sacrilege!" exclaimed the Emperor indignantly. "That year the virgin sibyl Diotima gave birth to a deaf-mute child, a bad omen. Only one sacred spring was left us and did not dry up, the spring called Tears of the Sun ... over there, where the child is now sitting...." Julian turned round. The boy was sitting in front of the mossy rock, motionless, and in his open palm receiving the falling drops. Julian almost imagined he saw two transparent wings trembling behind the divinely beautiful child. So sad, so pale, so enchanting his look, that the Emperor mused-- "He must be Eros, the little god of love, dying in our century of Galilean moroseness, and in his hand receiving the last drops, the last tears of love, tears of the god over Daphne, over the vanished beauty of Daphne!" The deaf-mute remained motionless, and a great black velvety butterfly alighted on his head. He neither saw it, nor stirred. Like a malign shadow the butterfly opened and shut its wings, while the Tears of the Sun dropped, one by one, into the hand of Hepherion. Louder and louder in the distance rose funereal psalms. Suddenly from behind the cypresses came the sound of voices disputing-- "Augustus is there." "Why should he go alone to Daphne?" "Why not? to-day is the great festival of Apollo. See, there he is ... Julian, we have sought you since the morning!" They were Greek sophists, men of science and rhetoricians, habitual companions of the Emperor, and with them the Neo-Platonist Priscus of Epirus, the bilious sceptic Julius Mauricus, the wise Sallustius Secundus, and the celebrated orator Libanius. Julian vouchsafed them not the least attention. "What's the matter?" murmured Julius to Priscus. "He must be displeased that there has been no preparation for the feast! We have not sent a single offering...." Julian addressed the former Christian rhetorician, now the high-priest of Astarte, Hekobolis-- "Go into the neighbouring chapel, and inform the Galileans praying there of my will. Let them come here." Hekobolis went. Gorgius, still holding his basket, stood petrified, with eyes and mouth wide open. He rubbed his bald head. Had he not drunk too much? It must all be a dream! But when he remembered all he had said about Julian and the god to the pretended professor, a cold sweat broke out on his forehead, his legs trembled, and he fell on his knees-- "Pardon, Cæsar! Forget my words!" One of the philosophers wished to thrust away the old man; but Julian stopped him--