his pale features, the torment of his brow, the anguish of his drawn lips.
Beside the lapping lake, and under the golden morning, he stands as Terror
in the midst of Peace.

'Silence again:--only the questing birds call from the olive-woods.
Panting, the priest moves onward, racked with sick tremors, prescient of
doom.

'But hark! a cry!--and yet another answering--a dark form bursting from the
grove--a fierce locked struggle under the sacred tree. The boy crawls to
the furthest end of the branch, his eyes starting from his head.

'From the temple enclosure, from the further trees, from the hill around,
a crowd comes running; men and white-robed priestesses, women, children
even--gathering in haste. But they pause afar off. Not a living soul
approaches the place of combat; not a hand gives aid. The boy can see the
faces of the virgins who serve the temple. They are pale, but very still.
Not a sound of pity escapes their white lips; their ambiguous eyes watch
calmly for the issue of the strife.

'And on the further side, at the edge of the grove stand country folk, men
in goatskin tunics and leathern hats like the boy's father. And the little
goatherd, not knowing what he does, calls to them for help in his shrill
voice. But no one heeds; and the priest himself calls no one, entreats no
one.

'Ah! The priest wavers--he falls--his white robes are in the dust. The
bright steel rises--descends:--the last groan speeds to heaven.

* * * * *