'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.

The grim, swarthy forms of the idols seemed to sway and writhe like living things in torment, as fire and smoke alternately displayed and concealed them.