Torches were dancing hither and thither.

The slave-maids of the Vestals ran down the Via Sacra shrieking and calling for aid.

Out from the dark tenements rushed the people.

The thieves ran from their lairs; the late drinkers sprang from their wine.

And when the wretched remnants of Dumnorix's band of ex-gladiators and brigands strove to flee from the holy house they had polluted, a hundred hands were put forth against each one, and they were torn to pieces by the frenzied mob.