The paroxysm had passed away; his face, distorted but the moment before, was now in repose, but it was a repose that was awful to look on.

Tears rolled slowly from his half-closed eyes over his seamed and wrinkled cheeks--tears which were not the impressive expression of mental anguish (for a vacant and unchanging smile was on his lips), but the mere mechanical outburst of the physical weakness that the past crisis of agony had left behind it.
Not the slightest appearance of thought or observation was perceptible in his features: his face was the face of an idiot.
Numerian, who had looked on him for an instant, shuddered and averted his eyes, recoiling from the sight before him.

But a more overpowering trial of his resolution was approaching, which he could not avoid.

Ere long the voice of Ulpius grew audible once more; but now its tones were weak, piteous, almost childish, and the words they uttered were quiet words of love and gentleness, which dropping from such lips, and pronounced in such a place, were fearful to hear.

The temple and all that was in it vanished from his sight as from his memory.