"Give glory to Nagaya, O ye people! for he alone can turn aside the wrath of the Immortals!"
"We give him glory!".. rejoined the multitude,--and "We give him glory! seemed to be shouted high among the arches of the Temple with a strange sound as of the mocking laughter of devils."
This preliminary over, there came out of unseen doors on both sides of the Sanctuary twenty priests in companies of ten each; ten advancing from the left, ten from the right. These were clad in flowing garments of carnation-colored silk, heavily bordered with gold, and the leader of the right-hand group was the priest Zel. His demeanor was austere and dignified, . . he carried a square cushion covered in black, on which lay a long, thin cruel-looking knife with a jewelled hilt. The chief of the priests, who stood on the left, bore a very tall and massive staff of polished ebony, which he solemnly presented to the High Priestess, who grasped it firmly in one slight hand and allowed it to rest steadily on the ground, while its uppermost point reached far above her head.
Then followed the strangest, weirdest scene that even the pen of poets or brush of painter devised, . . a march round and round the Temple of all the priests, bearing lighted flambeaux and singing in chorus a wild Litany,--a confused medley of supplications to the Sun and Nagaya, which, accompanied as it was by the discordant beating drums and the clanging of bells, had an evidently powerful effect on the minds of the assembled populace, for presently they also joined in the maddening chant, and growing more and more possessed by the contagious fever of fanaticism, began to howl and shriek and clap their hands furiously, creating a frightful din suggestive of some fiendish clamor in hell.
Theos, half deafened by the horrible uproar, as well as roused to an abnormal pitch of restless excitement, looked round to see how Sah-luma comported himself. He was sitting quite still, in a perfectly composed attitude,--a faint, derisive smile played on his lips, . . his profile, as it just then appeared, had the firmness and the pure soft outline of a delicately finished cameo, . . his splendid eyes now darkened, now lightened with passion, as he gazed at Lysia, who, all alone in the centre of the Shrine, held her ebony staff as perpendicularly erect as though it were a tree rooted fathoms deep in earth, keeping herself too as motionless as a figure of frozen snow.
And the King? ... what of him? ... Glancing at that bronze-like brooding countenance, Theos was startled and at the same time half fascinated by its expression. Such a mixture of tigerish tenderness, servile idolatry, intemperate desire, and craven fear he had never seen delineated on the face of any human being. In the black thirsty eyes there was a look that spoke volumes,--a look that betrayed what the heart concealed,--and reading that featured emblazonment of hidden guilt, Theos knew beyond all doubt that the rumors concerning the High Priestess and the King were true, . . that the dead Khosrul had spoken rightly, . . that Zephoranim loved Lysia! ... Love? ... it seemed too tame a word for the pent-up fury of passion that visibly and violently consumed the man! What would be the result? ...