The sick man bowed his head with an effort and murmured: 

“Even the Melchites who murdered my sons—­and even the head of our Church, the Patriarch, who was only too glad to leave it to me to achieve things which he scrupled to do himself.  That—­that—­But you, Ptolimus—­a wise and worthy servant of the Lord—­tell me to the best of your convictions:  May I die in the belief that it was not a sin to conclude a peace with the Arab conquerors of the Greeks?—­May I, even at this hour, think of the Melchites as heretics?”

The prelate drew his still upright figure to its full height, and his mild features assumed a determined—­nay a stern expression as he exclaimed: 

“You know the, decision pronounced by the Synod of Ephesus—­the words which should be graven on the heart of every true Jacobite as on marble and brass ’May all who divide the nature of Christ—­and this is what the Melchites do—­be divided with the sword, be hewn in pieces and be burnt alive!’—­No Head of our Church has ever hurled such a curse at the Moslems who adore the One God!”

The sufferer drew a deep breath, but he presently added with a sigh: 

“But Benjamin the Patriarch, and John of Niku have tormented my soul with fears!  Still, you too, Ptolimus, bear the crosier, and to you I will confess that your brethren in office, the shepherds of the Jacobite fold, have ruined my peace for hundreds of days and nights, and I have been near to cursing them.  But before the night fell the Lord sent light into my soul, and I forgave them, and now, through you, I crave their pardon and their blessing.  The Church has but reluctantly opened the doors to me in these last years; but what servant can be allowed to complain of the Master from whom he expects grace?  So listen to me.  I close my eyes as a faithful and devoted adherent of the Church, and in token thereof I will endow her to the best of my power and adorn her with rich and costly gifts; I will—­but I can say no more.—­Speak for me, Orion.  You know—­the gems—­the hanging. . . .”

His son explained to the bishop what a splendid gift, in priceless jewels, the dying man intended to offer to the Church.  He desired to be buried in the church of St. John at Alexandria by his father’s side, and to be prayed for in front of the mortuary chapel of his ancestors in the Necropolis; he had set aside a sum of money, in his will, to pay for the prayers to be offered for his soul.  The priests were well pleased to hear this, and they absolved him unconditionally and completely; then, after blessing him fervently, they quitted the room.

Philippus heaved a sigh of relief when the ecclesiastics had departed, and constantly renewed the wet compress, while the dying governor lay for a long time in silence with his eyes shut.  Presently he rubbed them as though he felt revived, raised his head a little with the physician’s help, and looking up, said: 

“Draw the ring off my finger, Orion, and wear it worthily.—­Where is little Mary, where is Paula?  I should wish to bid them farewell too.”