A murmur of relief and rejoicing ran rippling through the listening crowds,—­a weight seemed lifted from their minds, . . the victim was willing to die after all! ... the Sacrifice would be proceeded with.  There was a slight pause,—­during which the priests crossed and re-crossed the Sanctuary many times, one of them descending the steps to tie Niphrata’s hands behind her back as before.  In the immediate interest of the moment, Sah-luma and his hot interference seemed to be almost forgotten, . . a few people, indeed, cast injured and indignant looks toward the corner where he dejectedly leaned, and once the wrinkled, malicious head of old Zabastes peered at him, with an expression of incredulous amazement,—­but otherwise no sympathy was manifested by any one for the popular Laureate’s suffering and discomfiture.  He was the nation’s puppet, . . its tame bird, whose business was to sing when bidden, . . but he was not expected to have any voice in matters of religion or policy,—­and still less was he supposed to intrude any of his own personal griefs on the public notice.  Let him sing!—­ and sing well,—­that was enough; but let him dare to be afflicted, and annoy others with his wants and troubles, why then he at once became uninteresting! ... he might even die for all anybody cared!  This was the unspoken sullen thought that Theos, sensitive to the core on his friend’s behalf, instinctively felt to be smouldering in the heart of the mighty multitude,—­and he resented the half-implied, latent ungratefulness of the people with all his soul.

“Fools!".. he muttered under his breath,—­“For you, and such as you, the wisest sages toil in vain! ... on you Art wastes her treasures of suggestive loveliness! ... low grovellers in earth, ye have no eyes for heaven!  O ignorant, ungenerous, fickle hypocrites, whose ruling passion is the greed of gold!—­Why should great men perish, that ye may live! ...  And yet.. your acclamations make up the thing called Fame!  Fame? ...  Good God!—­ ’tis a brief shout in the universal clamor, scarce heard and soon forgotten!”

And filled with strange bitterness, he gazed disconsolately at Niphrata, who stood like one in a trance of ecstasy, patiently awaiting her doom, her lovely, innocent blue eyes gladly upturned to the long, jewel-like head of Nagaya, which twined round the summit of the ebony staff, seemed to peer down at her in a sort of drowsy reflectiveness.  Then, all suddenly, Lysia spoke, . . how enchanting was the exquisite modulation of that slow, languid, silvery voice!

 “Come hither, O Maiden fair, pure, and faithful! 
   The desire of thy soul is granted! 
  Before thee are the Gates of the Unknown World! 
   Already they open to admit thee;
  Through their golden bars gleams the glory of thy future! 
   Speak! ...  What seest thou?”

A moment of breathless silence ensued,—­all present seemed to be straining their ears to catch the victim’s answer.  It came,—­soft and clear as a bell: