'Slay, till
not a Christian is left! Victory! Serapis! See, they drop from our
walls!--they writhe bleeding on the earth beneath us! There is no
worship but the worship of the gods! Slay! Slay on!'
'Light!' cried the priest. 'His damnation be on his own head!
Anathema! Maranatha! Let him die accursed!'
The dry fuel was fired at once at all points--it was an anticipation of
an 'Auto da Fe', a burning of a heretic, in the fifth century! As the
flames rose, the people fell back and watched their rapid progress. The
priests, standing before them in a line, stretched out their hands in
denunciation against the temple, and repeated together the awful
excommunication service of the Roman Church.
*****
The fire at the gates had communicated with the idols inside. It was no
longer on his prostrate altar, but on his funeral pile that Ulpius now
stood; and the image that he clasped was the stake to which he was
bound. A red glare, dull at first, was now brightening and brightening
below him; flames, quick and noiseless, rose and fell, and rose again,
at different points, illuminating the interior of the temple with fitful
and changing light.
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