"Let us despise it all, and in contempt resign ourselves. Human stupidity can never hurt the gods!" So saying the "Divine" Iamblicus took an enormous faggot from the hands of the Christian and cast it into the fire. At first Julian could scarcely believe his eyes. The now-smiling spies stared at him, with a curious fixity. Then weakness, and his own habitual hypocrisy for his own sake and for the sake of others, won the day. He went to the heap of wood, chose the largest log, and, after Iamblicus, threw it into the blaze in which the mutilated body of the goddess was already melting. He clearly saw drops of silver rolling on her face as in a death-sweat, and the lips still keeping their invincible smile. IX "Look at those fellows dressed in black, Julian! They are shadows of night-fall, shadows of death. Soon there will not be a single ancient white robe left, nor a single sun-steeped piece of marble.... All is over!" So spoke the young sophist, Antoninus, son of the prophetess Sospitra and of Ædesius, the Neo-Platonist. He was standing with Julian on the terrace of the temple of Pergamos, in bright sunshine, under a sky of cloudless blue. Along the foot of the balustrade was carven the revolt of the Titans. The gods were triumphing; and the hoofs of the winged horses crushing the serpent bodies of the antique giants. Antoninus pointed to the carving-- "Ah! Julian, the Olympians conquered the Titans, but now the Olympians in their turn will be beaten by barbaric gods. These temples will become tombs...." Antoninus was a handsome youth, straight-limbed as one of the old statues, but his health had been broken for years by an incurable malady, and his face had become yellow, lean, and melancholy. "I pray the gods," went on Antoninus, "I entreat the gods not to suffer me to see that night--that I may die before it comes. Rhetoricians, sophists, poets, sages, artists, none of us are wanted any more. We are born in too late a day.... All is over for us!" "And suppose you are mistaken?" hazarded Julian. "No, all's over! We are not as our forefathers! We are sick, strength fails us." Julian's face seemed as worn and haggard as that of Antoninus. The projecting lower lip gave him an expression of taciturn arrogance. The thick eyebrows were knitted in bitter obstinacy; precocious wrinkles already furrowed his cheeks. The long nose had grown longer than ever; and his always strange eyes were now burning with a dry, feverish, disagreeable fire. He still wore the monkish habit. During the day he still attended church, as hitherto; worshipped relics; read the gospels in public, and was preparing to take orders. Sometimes all this hypocrisy seemed to him worse than useless. He foresaw that Gallus would not escape a premature death, and knew that he himself might expect it at any moment.