Fresh alarms and fresh shame overwhelmed the poor girl; she tried to free herself and found him quite ready to set her down.  When she was once more on her feet and felt that she could stand she glanced wildly round her with sudden recollection, and then uttered a hoarse cry, for her mouth and tongue were parched: 

“Christ Jesus!  Where is my brother?” She pushed back her hair with a desperate gesture, pressing her hands to her temples and peering all round her with a look of fevered misery.

She was still in the square and close to the door of the Prefect’s house; a man on horseback, in all probability her preserver’s servant, was following them, leading his master’s horse.  On the pavement lay wounded men groaning with pain; the street of the Caesareum was lined with a double row of footsoldiers of Papias no sign!

Again she called him, and with such deep anguish in her voice, which was harsh and shrill with terror, that the young officer looked at her with extreme compassion.

“Papias, Papias—­my little brother!  O God my Saviour!—­where, where is the child?”

“We will have him sought for,” said the soldier whose voice was gentle and kind.  “You are too young and pretty—­what brought you into this crowd and amid such an uproar?”

She colored deeply and looking down answered low and hurriedly:  “I was going to see the Bishop.”

“You chose an evil hour,” replied Constantine, for it was he who had found her lying on the pavement and who had thought it only an act of mercy not to trust so young and fair a girl to the protection of his followers.  “You may thank God that you have got off so cheaply.  Now, I must return to my men.  You know where the Bishop lives?  Yes, here.  And with regard to your little brother. . . .  Stay; do you live in Alexandria?” “No, my lord.”

“But you have some relation or friend whom you lodge with?”

“No, my lord.  I am . . .  I have . . .  I told you, I only want to see my lord the Bishop.”

“Very strange!  Well, take care of yourself.  My time is not my own; but by-and-bye, in a very short time, I will speak to the city watchmen; how old is the boy?”

“Nearly six.”

“And with black hair like yours?”

“No, my lord—­fair hair,” and as she spoke the tears started to her eyes.  “He has light curly hair and a sweet, pretty little face.”

The prefect smiled and nodded.  “And if they find him,” he went on, “Papias, you say, is his name where is he to be taken?”

“I do not know, my lord, for—­and yet!  Oh! my head aches, I cannot think—­if only I knew. . . .  If they find him he must come here—­here to my lord the Bishop.”

“To Theophilus?” said Constantine in surprise.  “Yes, yes—­to him,” she said hastily.  “Or—­stay—­to the gate-keeper at the Bishop’s palace.”

“Well, that is less aristocratic, but perhaps it is more to the purpose,” said the officer; and with a sign to his servant, he twisted his hand in his horse’s mane, leaped into the saddle, waved her a farewell, and rejoined his men without paying any heed to her thanks.