the sight of their blood had a wonderful effect on their comrades. Rage
surged up in the breasts of the most timid, and fear vanished before the
passion for revenge; cowardice turned to martial ardor, and philosophers
and artists thirsted for blood. The red glare of strife danced before
the eyes of the veriest book-worm; fired by the terrible impulse to kill,
to subdue, to destroy the foe, they fought desperately and blindly,
staking their lives on the issue.

Karnis, that zealous votary of the Muses, stood with Orpheus, on the very
top of the barricade throwing lance after lance, while he sang at the top
of his voice snatches of the verses of Tyrtaeus, in the teeth, as it
were, of the foe who were crowding through the breach; the sweat streamed
from his bald head and his eye flashed fire. By his side stood his son,
sending swift arrows from an enormous bow. The heavy curls of his hair
had come unbound and fell over his flushed face. When he hit one of the
Imperial soldiers his father applauded him eagerly; then, collecting all
his strength, flung another lance, chanting a hexameter or a verse of an
ode. Herse crouched half hidden behind a sacrificial stone which lay at
the top of the hastily-constructed rampart, and handed weapons to the
combatants as they needed them. Her dress was torn and blood-stained,
her grey hair had come loose from the ribbands and crescent that should
have confined it; the worthy matron had become a Megaera and shrieked to
the men: "Kill the dogs! Stand steady! Spare never a Christian!"

But the little garrison needed no incitement; the fevered zeal which
possessed them wholly, seconded their thirst for blood and doubled their
strength.

An arrow, shot by Orpheus, had just glanced over the breastplate and into
the throat of a centurion who had already set foot on the lowest step,