The voice of Ulpius had resumed in the
interval its hollow loudness of tone; he had raised Numerian from the
ground; his strong, cold grasp, which seemed to penetrate to the old
man's heart, which held him motionless and helpless as if by a fatal
spell, was on his arm.
'Hear it! hear it!' cried the Pagan, waving his disengaged hand as if he
were addressing a vast concourse of people--'I advance this man to be
one of the servants of the high priest! He has travelled from a far
country to the sacred shrine; he is docile and obedient before the altar
of the gods; the lost is cast for his future life; his dwelling shall be
in the temple to the day of his death! He shall minister before me in
white robes, and swing the smoking censer, and slay the sacrifice at my
feet!'
He stopped. A dark and sinister expression appeared in his eyes as the
word 'sacrifice' passed his lips; he muttered doubtingly to
himself--'The sacrifice!--is it yet the hour of the sacrifice?'--and
looked round towards the doorway.
The sun still shone gaily on the outer pavement; the insects still
circled slowly in the mellow light; no shadow was now visible; no
distant footsteps were heard; there was nothing audible but the happy
music of the bubbling water, and the chiming, silvery bells.
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