The light falls on his pale features, the torment of his brow, the anguish of his drawn lips.
Beside the lapping lake, and under the golden morning, he stands as Terror in the midst of Peace.
'Silence again:--only the questing birds call from the olive-woods.
Panting, the priest moves onward, racked with sick tremors, prescient of doom.
'But hark! a cry!--and yet another answering--a dark form bursting from the grove--a fierce locked struggle under the sacred tree.

The boy crawls to the furthest end of the branch, his eyes starting from his head.
'From the temple enclosure, from the further trees, from the hill around, a crowd comes running; men and white-robed priestesses, women, children even--gathering in haste.

But they pause afar off.

Not a living soul approaches the place of combat; not a hand gives aid.

The boy can see the faces of the virgins who serve the temple.