on the current of suspicion, now hurled to the right by the storm-gust of remorse? Did he not stagger, terror-stricken, up to the imperial throne, his purple mantle dripping with my father's blood? perhaps with my mother's too?—Had not all my kin to perish that he might sit secure? No, not all; Gallus was spared, and I;—a couple of lives must be left wherewith to buy himself a little pardon. Then he drifted into the current of suspicion again. Remorse wrung from him the title of Caesar for Gallus; then suspicion wrung from him Caesar's death-warrant. And I? Do I owe him thanks for the life he has hitherto vouchsafed me? One after the other; first Gallus, and then; every night I have sweated with terror lest the next day should be my last.
Maximus.
Were Constantius and death your worst terrors? Think?
Julian.
No, you are right. The priests! My whole youth has been one long dread of the Emperor and of Christ. Oh, he is terrible, that mysterious—that merciless god-man! At every turn, wheresoever I wished to go, he met me, stark and stern, with his unconditional, inexorable commands.
Maximus.
And those commands—were they within you?
Julian.
Always without. Always "Thou shalt." If my soul gathered itself up in one gnawing and consuming hate towards the murderer of my kin,
