‘Peace, brethren,’ said Olinthus, with dignity, ’and hear me!  This murdered priest of Isis before his death embraced the Christian faith—­he revealed to me the dark sins, the sorceries of yon Egyptian—­the mummeries and delusions of the fane of Isis.  He was about to declare them publicly.  He, a stranger, unoffending, without enemies! who should shed his blood but one of those who feared his witness?  Who might fear that testimony the most?—­Arbaces, the Egyptian!’

‘You hear him!’ said Arbaces; ’you hear him! he blasphemes!  Ask him if he believes in Isis!’

‘Do I believe in an evil demon?’ returned Olinthus, boldly.

A groan and shudder passed through the assembly.  Nothing daunted, for prepared at every time for peril, and in the present excitement losing all prudence, the Christian continued: 

’Back, idolaters! this clay is not for your vain and polluting rites—­it is to us—­to the followers of Christ, that the last offices due to a Christian belong.  I claim this dust in the name of the great Creator who has recalled the spirit!’

With so solemn and commanding a voice and aspect the Christian spoke these words, that even the crowd forbore to utter aloud the execration of fear and hatred which in their hearts they conceived.  And never, perhaps, since Lucifer and the Archangel contended for the body of the mighty Lawgiver, was there a more striking subject for the painter’s genius than that scene exhibited.  The dark trees—­the stately fane—­the moon full on the corpse of the deceased—­the torches tossing wildly to and fro in the rear—­the various faces of the motley audience—­the insensible form of the Athenian, supported, in the distance, and in the foreground, and above all, the forms of Arbaces and the Christian:  the first drawn to its full height, far taller than the herd around; his arms folded, his brow knit, his eyes fixed, his lip slightly curled in defiance and disdain.  The last bearing, on a brow worn and furrowed, the majesty of an equal command—­the features stern, yet frank—­the aspect bold, yet open—­the quiet dignity of the whole form impressed with an ineffable earnestness, hushed, as it were, in a solemn sympathy with the awe he himself had created.  His left hand pointing to the corpse—­his right hand raised to heaven.

The centurion pressed forward again.

’In the first place, hast thou, Olinthus, or whatever be thy name, any proof of the charge thou hast made against Arbaces, beyond thy vague suspicions?’

Olinthus remained silent—­the Egyptian laughed contemptuously.

’Dost thou claim the body of a priest of Isis as one of the Nazarene or Christian sect?’

‘I do.’

’Swear then by yon fane, yon statue of Cybele, by yon most ancient sacellum in Pompeii, that the dead man embraced your faith!’

’Vain man!  I disown your idols!  I abhor your temples!  How can I swear by Cybele then?’