A heathen, who disbelieved?
....

What was the meaning of it all?
But the finishing stroke yet remained which was to complete the utter confusion of his mind.

For before he had gone fifty yards up the street, his little friend of the fruit-basket, whom he had not seen since he vanished under the feet of the mob in the gateway of the theatre, clutched him by the arm, and burst forth, breathless with running-- 'The--gods--heap their favours--on those who--who least deserve them! Rash and insolent rustic! And this is the reward of thy madness!' 'Off with you!' said Philammon, who had no mind at the moment to renew his acquaintance with the little porter.

But the guardian of parasols kept a firm hold on his sheepskin.
'Fool! Hypatia herself commands! Yes, you will see her, have speech with her! while I--I the illuminated--I the appreciating--I the obedient--I the adoring--who for these three years past have grovelled in the kennel, that the hem of her garment might touch the tip of my little finger--I--I--I--' 'What do you want, madman ?' 'She calls for thee, insensate wretch! Theon sent me--breathless at once with running and with envy--Go! favourite of the unjust gods!' 'Who is Theon ?' 'Her father, ignorant! He commands thee to be at her house--here-opposite--to-morrow at the third hour.

Hear and obey! There they are coming out of the Museum, and all the parasols will get wrong! Oh, miserable me!' And the poor little fellow rushed back again, while Philammon, at his wits' end between dread and longing, started off, and ran the whole way home to the Serapeium, regardless of carriages, elephants, and foot-passengers; and having been knocked down by a surly porter, and left a piece of his sheepskin between the teeth of a spiteful camel-neither of which insults he had time to resent-arrived at the archbishop's house, found Peter the Reader, and tremblingly begged an audience from Cyril..