inward conflict of fear and pain that tormented him, he turned his attention anew to the gorgeous ceremony that was going on, . . the march of the priests had come to an abrupt end.  They stood now on each side of the Shrine, divided in groups of equal numbers, tossing their flambeaux around and above them to the measured ringing of bells.  At every upward wave of these flaring torches, a tongue of fire leaped aloft, to instantly break and descend in a sparkling shower of gold,—­the effect of this was wonderful in the extreme, as by the dexterous way in which the flames were flung forth, it appeared to the spectator’s eyes as though a luminous Snake were twisting and coiling itself to and fro in mid-air.

All loud music ceased, . . the multitude calmed down by degrees and left off their delirious cries of frenzy or rapture, . . there was nothing heard but a monotonous chanting in undertone, of which not a syllable was distinctly intelligible.  Then from out a dark portal unperceived in the shadowed gloom of a curtained niche, there advanced a procession of young girls,—­fifty in all, clad in pure white and closely veiled.

They carried small citherns, and arriving in front of the shrine, they knelt down in a semicircle, and very gently began to strike the short, responsive strings.  The murmur of a lazy rivulet among whispering reeds, . . the sighing suggestions of leaves ready to fall in autumn,—­the low, languid trilling of nightingales just learning to sing,—­any or all these might be said to resemble the dulcet melody they played; while every delicate arpeggio, every rippling chord was muffled with a soft pressure of their hands ere the sound had time to become vehement.  This elf-like harping continued for a short interval, during which the priests, gathering in a ring round a huge bronze font-shaped vessel hard by, dipped their flambeaux therein and suddenly extinguished them.

At the same moment the lights in the body of the Temple were all lowered, . . only the Arch spanning the Shrine blazed in undiminished brilliancy, its green tint appearing more intense in contrast with the surrounding deepening shadow.  And now with a harsh clanging noise as of the turning of heavy bolts and keys, the back of the Sanctuary parted asunder in the fashion of a revolving double doorway,—­and a golden grating was disclosed, its strong glistening bars welded together like knotted ropes and wrought with marvellous finish and solidity.  Turning toward this semblance of a prison-cell Lysia spoke aloud—­her clear tones floating with mellifluous slowness above the half-hushed quiverings of the cithern-choir: 

“Come forth, O Nagaya, thou who didst slumber in the bosom of Space ere ever the world was made!

“Come forth, O Nagaya, thou who didst behold the Sun born out of Chaos, and the Earth enriched with ever-producing life!

“Come forth, O Nagaya, Friend of the gods and the people, and comfort us with the Divine Silence of thy Wisdom supernal!”