A Priest.
Marvellously has he been shielded from them all; the hand of heaven is over him.
Potamon.
Rumour says that in Gaul he placed himself in very different hands.
The Priest.
Lies, lies; you may depend upon it.
Julian.
Now he comes. The Sun, whom I invoke, and the great thunder-wielding God, know that I never desired Constantius's death. That was far indeed from being my wish. I have offered up prayers for his life.—Tell me, Caesarius,—you must know best,—have they shown all due honour, on the journey, to the imperial corpse?
Caesarius.
The funeral procession was like a conqueror's triumph through the whole of Asia Minor. In every town we traversed, believers thronged the streets; through whole nights the churches echoed with prayers and hymns; thousands of burning tapers transformed the darkness into high noon
Julian.
Good, good, good!—I am seized with an unspeakable misgiving at the thought of taking the helm of state after so great and virtuous and well-beloved an Emperor. Why was it not my lot to live in peaceful retirement?
