their slow and stately way towards the column with the god-like Head upon it and began to circle round it, chanting as they walked, while the flower-crowned boys swung golden censers to and fro, impregnating the air with rich perfume.  The people all knelt—­ and still the priests paced round and round, chanting and murmuring prayers,—­till at last the great sun lifted the edge of its glowing disc above the horizon, and its rays springing from the east like golden arrows, struck the brow of the Head set on its basalt pedestal.  With the sudden glitter of this morning glory the chanting ceased,—­the procession stopped; and one priest, tall and commanding of aspect, stepped forth from the rest, holding up his hands to enjoin silence.  And then the Head quivered as with life,—­its lips moved—­there was a rippling sound like the chord of a harp smitten by the wind,—­and a voice, full, sweet and resonant, spoke aloud the words:—­

“I face the Sunrise!”

With a shout of joy priests and people responded: 

“We face the Sunrise!”

And he who seemed the highest in authority, raising his arms invokingly towards heaven, exclaimed: 

“Even so, O Mightiest among the Mighty, let us ever remember that Thy Shadow is but part of Thy Light,—­that Sorrow is but the passing humour of Joy—­and that Death is but the night which dawns again into Life!  We face the Sunrise!”

Then all who were assembled joined in singing a strange half-barbaric song and chorus of triumph, to the strains of which they slowly moved off and disappeared like shapes breathed on a mirror and melting away.  Only the tall high priest remained,—­and he stood alone, waiting, as it were, for something eagerly expected and desired.  And presently the woman who had till now remained hidden among the shadows of the surrounding trees, came swiftly forward.  She was very pale—­her eyes shone with tears—­and again I saw my own face in hers.  The priest turned quickly to greet her, and I distinctly heard every word he spoke as he caught her hands in his own and drew her towards him.

“Everything in this world and the next I will resign,” he said—­“for love of thee!  Honour, dignity and this poor earth’s renown I lay at thy feet, thou most beloved of women!  What other thing created or imagined can be compared to the joy of thee?—­to the sweetness of thy lips, the softness of thy bosom—­the love that trembles into confession with thy smile!  Imprison me but in thine arms and I will count my very soul well lost for an hour of love with thee!  Ah, deny me not!—­turn me not away from thee again!—­love comes but once in life—­such love as ours!—­early or late, but once!”

She looked at him with tender passion and pity—­a look in which I thankfully saw there was no trace of pride, resentment or affected injury.

“Oh, my beloved!” she answered, and her voice, plaintive and sweet, thrilled on the silence like a sob of pain—­“Why wilt thou rush on destruction for so poor a thing as I am?  Knowest thou not, and wilt thou not remember that, to a priest of thy great Order, the love of woman is forbidden, and the punishment thereof is death?  Already the people view thee with suspicion and me with scorn—­forbear, O dearest, bravest soul!—­be strong!”