Long before it was decided Dada had been impatiently fingering her wreaths, and could hardly wait any longer to fling them into Marcus’ chariot.  When it was all over she might perhaps have an opportunity of speaking to him; and she thought how delightful his voice was and what fine, kind eyes he had.  If only he were to bid her be his, she would follow him whither and wherever he desired, whatever Karnis and Herse might say to the contrary.  She thought no one could be so glad of his success as she was; she felt as if she belonged to him, had always belonged to him, and only some spiteful trick of Fate had come between them.

There was a fresh blast of trumpets; the victor, in obedience to a time-honored custom, was to drive round the arena at a foot-pace and show his brave team to the multitude.  He came nearer and nearer, and Demetrius proposed that they should cross the little watercourse that parted the podium from the arena and follow the chariot, so as to give his brother the wreaths instead of flinging them to him.  The girl colored and could say neither yes or no; but she rose, hung one of the olive-crowns on her arm with a happy, bashful smile, and handed the other to her new friend; then she followed him across the little bridge on to the race-course which, now that the games were over, was crowded with Christians.

The brothers exchanged pleased greetings from afar, but Marcus did not see Dada till she was close to him and stood, with a shy but radiant glance of intense delight, holding out the olive-wreath for his acceptance.  He felt as though Heaven had wrought a miracle in his favor.  Never before had he thought her half so lovely.  She seemed to have grown since he had seen her last, to have gained a deeper and nobler expression; and he observed, too, the blue favors on her shoulder and among the roses that crowned her fair curls.  Gladness and surprise prevented his speaking; but he took the garland she offered him and, seizing her hands, stammered out:  “Thanks—­thank you, Dada.”

Their eyes met, and as he gazed into her face he forgot where he was, did not even wonder why his brother had suddenly turned away and, beginning some long-winded speech, had rushed after a man who hastily covered his head and tried to escape; he did not notice that thousands of eyes were fixed on him, and among them his mother’s; he could merely repeat:  “thanks” and “Dada”—­the only words he could find.  He would perhaps have gone on repeating them, but that he was interrupted; the ’porta libitinaria’—­the gate through which the dead or injured were usually carried out, was thrown open, and a rabble of infuriated heathen rushed in, crying:  “Serapis is fallen!  They have destroyed the image of Serapis!  The Christians are ruining the sanctuaries of the gods!”