d wept; suffered insult, outrage, blows, death,
without thought of revolt, because promises made in thy name had
soothed their rage to sleep! And I curse thee for the sorrow that now
fills me, and for the ills that must come even of thy going! Die! [_He
throws a stool in the face of the statue_] You others do as I. Go, climb
their pedestals! Lay hold of their hands, they are lifeless! Strike,
'tis but an image! Spit in their faces, they are senseless! Strike!
Ruin! All this is nothing but hardened mud!

_The crowd which had punctuated the words of Satni with
cries and murmurs has approached the statues behind him and
followed his example, blaspheming, and howling with fury.
The more courageous begin, being hoisted to the pedestals,
the rest follow suit. The gods are overthrown._

RHEOU. Now, let them open my granaries, that each may help himself; and
take from my flocks to sate you all.

_Cries of joy, they go out slowly. Bitiou in the meantime
approaches an overthrown statue and still half-afraid, kicks
it. He tries to run, falls, picks himself up, then seeing
that decidedly there is no danger, seats himself on the
stomach of the goddess Thoueris and bursts into a peal of
triumphant bestial laughter._

BITIOU. Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!

_Then he perceives the little statue of Isis which Mieris
shields with her arms, points it out to a couple of men who
advance to it._

DELETHI. Mistress, they would take Isis!

MIERIS [_in tears_] Let me keep her--

RHEOU. No, Mieris.

MIERIS [_letting go_] Take her--[_Then_] Stay!

RHEOU. Wherefore?

MIERIS. Can you part from her, and feel nothing? Even now, Satni, in
denouncing the gods to the fury of the crowd, you did not say
everything--You, who can see her, behold this little image, think how
many tears were shed before her, in the years since she was made. She
has been ours for generations. Call up the countless crowds of those who
have fixed their anxious looks upon her eyes, dead even as mine are. It
is for all the anguish she has looked upon, we must respect her. Tears
make holy. I doubt not you are right: she must be broken too--but not
without farewell. [_To Yaouma_] Where is she, Yaouma? I would say my
last prayer to her. [_To the statue_] Oh, them who didst not heal, but
didst console me; O thou who hast heard so many entreaties and
thanksgivings, thou art but clay! Yet men have give