The car was shaded by a tall canopy, supported by four poles, against which leaned four men in the robes of the heathen priesthood; this awning was lavishly decorated with wreaths of lotos and reeds, and fenced about with papyrus, bulrushes, tall grasses and blossoming river-weeds.  Beneath it sat the queen of the festival—­the Bride of the Nile.

Robed in white and closely veiled, she was quite motionless.  Her long, thick brown hair fell over her shoulders; at her feet lay a wreath, and rare rose-colored lotos-flowers were strewn on the car.

The bishop had been sitting at her side, the first Christian priest, certainly, of all the swarms of monks and ecclesiastics in Memphis, who had ever appeared at such a scene of heathen abomination.  He was now standing, looking down at the crowd with a deeply knit brow and menacing gaze.  What good had come of the penitential sermons in all the churches, of his and his vicar’s warnings and threats?  In spite of all remonstrance he had mounted the car with the condemned victim, after administering the last consolations to her soul.  It might cost him his life, but he would keep his promise.

In her hand Paula held two roses:  one was Orion’s last greeting delivered by Martina; the other Pulcheria had brought her early in the morning.  Yesterday, in a lucid moment, her dying father had given her his fondest blessing, little knowing what hung over her; to-day he had not come to himself, and had neither noticed nor returned her parting kiss.  Quite unconscious, he had been moved from the prison out of doors and to the house of Rufinus.  Dame Joanna would not forego the privilege of giving him a resting-place and taking care of him till the end.

Orion’s last note was placed in Paula’s hands just before she set out; it informed her that his task was now successfully ended.  He had been told that it was to-morrow, and not to-day, that the hideous act would be accomplished; and it was a consolation to her to know that he was spared the agony of following her in fancy in her fearful progress.

She had allowed the women who came to clothe her in bridal array to perform their task; among them was Emau, the chief warder’s wife, and her overflowing compassion had done Paula good.  But even in the prison-yard she had felt it unendurable to exhibit herself decked in her bridal wreaths to the gaping multitude; she had torn them from her and thrown them on the ground.

How long—­how interminably long—­had the road to the river appeared; but she had never raised her eyes to look at the curious crowd, never ceased lifting up her heart in prayer; and when her proud blood boiled, or despair had almost taken possession of her, she had grasped the bishop’s hand and he had never wearied of encouraging her and exhorting her to cling to love and faith, and not even yet abandon all hope.

Thus they at last reached the pontoon at whose further end life would begin for her in another world.  The shouts of the crowd were as loud, as triumphant, as expectant as ever; music and singing mingled with the roar of thousands of spectators; she allowed herself to be lifted from the car as though she were stunned, and followed the young men and maidens who formed the bridal train, and in alternate choruses sang the finest nuptial song of Sappho the fair Lesbian.