“I could tell a curious story of that month and year. But there! let it pass.” “No, we must _not_ let it pass,” cried Florus, and thinking to do honor to Crispus, he said to those within his immediate vicinity, “Silence, friends, for the noble Crispus’ story.” All eyes were bent upon Crispus, who hesitated for a moment, and then, seeing expectancy written upon the faces of the guests, he began: “Well, since you will have it: At the time just mentioned, namely the month of April in the eighteenth year of Tiberius, there chanced to be upon the Ionian Sea a merchant vessel bound for Italy. It was eventide; the breeze had died away, and the ship lay becalmed off the Isle of Paxos. Suddenly the stillness that lay upon land and sea was broken by a voice coming from the lonely shore--a voice clear and solemn, and one that carried awe to all who heard it, for it seemed scarcely to belong to earth. ‘_Thamus!_’ it cried. Now the pilot of the vessel happened to be one Thamus, an Egyptian, a man of humble and obscure origin, and not so much as known by name to those on board. Full of fear, he let himself be called twice ere he would answer. At the third cry he found courage to ask, ‘What want you?’ And thus did the voice make reply: ‘When thou comest to Pelodes, cry aloud that the great Pan is dead.’ That was all; no more. The passengers, amazed and awed by the event, debated among themselves whether it would be wise to obey the mysterious voice. Thamus, himself, determined the matter: if on attaining the appointed place there should be wind enough to fill the sails, he would pass by in silence, but if not, he would proclaim the message. The breeze freshened, the ship glided on, but when they reached Pelodes it made no further progress, for the wind suddenly dropped again. Thamus, therefore, taking his stand upon the prow, turned his face to the land, and shouted in a loud tone, ‘_Great Pan is dead!_’ Then from the hitherto silent shore there arose a sound like the voice of a multitude, a sound as of weeping and wild lament.”[2] Such was the story told by Crispus, and he finished with the odd feeling that the telling of it had pleased neither the Jewish nor the Gentile portion of his auditors. “Whence do you derive this story?” asked Theomantes with a somewhat supercilious air. “From my father, himself a passenger in this same vessel.” “Who were they that made these sounds?” “Beings more than mortal; of that he is convinced.” “Gods and demons?” “It may be so.” “In a lamenting mood?” “A wailing as of despair, so my father describes the sound.” “Gods in despair at the death of someone? And this happened in Greece in the eighteenth year of Tiberius? Would you have us believe that the Christus crucified by Pilate and the ‘Great Pan’ of your story are one and the same, and that his death has caused the downfall of the gods?”