Yes, I had been to the Council of Nicea, and seen it avoid the issue.  And I remembered when the Emperor Constantine had banished Arius for his uprightness.  And I remembered when Constantine repented for reasons of state and policy and commanded Alexander—­the other Alexander, thrice cursed, Bishop of Constantinople—­to receive Arius into communion on the morrow.  And that very night did not Arius die in the street?  They said it was a violent sickness visited upon him in answer to Alexander’s prayer to God.  But I said, and so said all we Arians, that the violent sickness was due to a poison, and that the poison was due to Alexander himself, Bishop of Constantinople and devil’s poisoner.

And here I ground my body back and forth on the sharp stones, and muttered aloud, drunk with conviction: 

“Let the Jews and Pagans mock.  Let them triumph, for their time is short.  And for them there will be no time after time.”

I talked to myself aloud a great deal on that rocky shelf overlooking the river.  I was feverish, and on occasion I drank sparingly of water from a stinking goatskin.  This goatskin I kept hanging in the sun that the stench of the skin might increase and that there might be no refreshment of coolness in the water.  Food there was, lying in the dirt on my cave-floor—­a few roots and a chunk of mouldy barley-cake; and hungry I was, although I did not eat.

All I did that blessed, livelong day was to sweat and swelter in the sun, mortify my lean flesh upon the rock, gaze out of the desolation, resurrect old memories, dream dreams, and mutter my convictions aloud.

And when the sun set, in the swift twilight I took a last look at the world so soon to pass.  About the feet of the colossi I could make out the creeping forms of beasts that laired in the once proud works of men.  And to the snarls of the beasts I crawled into my hole, and, muttering and dozing, visioning fevered fancies and praying that the last day come quickly, I ebbed down into the darkness of sleep.

* * * * *

Consciousness came back to me in solitary, with the quartet of torturers about me.

“Blasphemous and heretical Warden of San Quentin whose feet have fast hold of hell,” I gibed, after I had drunk deep of the water they held to my lips.  “Let the jailers and the trusties triumph.  Their time is short, and for them there is no time after time.”

“He’s out of his head,” Warden Atherton affirmed.

“He’s putting it over on you,” was Doctor Jackson’s surer judgment.

“But he refuses food,” Captain Jamie protested.

“Huh, he could fast forty days and not hurt himself,” the doctor answered.

“And I have,” I said, “and forty nights as well.  Do me the favour to tighten the jacket and then get out of here.”

The head trusty tried to insert his forefinger inside the lacing.

“You couldn’t get a quarter of an inch of slack with block and tackle,” he assured them.