her raven hair flowed down and lay in
waves on folds of costly yellow silk bestudded with stars; her face was
calm as death, rigid as a marble statue; emotion showed no place in that
mysterious being.

Five beautiful girls, the loveliest of Ionia, priestesses of the
goddess, bees of the Temple, waited on her; but the beauty and dignity
of the great High Priestess outshone them all, as the rising sun puts
out the light of the silvery stars.

The black lamb had been sacrificed to Hecate, and its crimson blood
streamed over the altar into the earth.

The priestesses were hidden from view by a turning in the way, and it
was only when the last tall lines of myrtles were passed that they could
be seen. But the clanging of cymbals was near, the strains of the lyre
broke in, and the low tones of the mellow flute kept up a sacred melody.

The first of the heralds drew near the altar sacrifice, stood still a
moment, then blew a blast which made the blossoms quiver; and the
procession came with measured tread, carrying banners many-coloured, and
bearing symbols of the goddess which glittered in the sunlight.

Nika, pale and trembling, stood within a circle of the priests,
enveloped by the many standards which they bore.

Suddenly the silken shields were lowered, the circle broke in twain,
and formed a guard on either side; and Nika, looking down between the
lines, saw the dark face and towering form of Saronia standing by the
altar.

With one loud, piercing cry of anguish, the girl rushed madly towards
her, and when within three paces plucked a jewelled dagger from her
bosom, and made to plunge it into the heart of her former slave.

One look from the mystic eyes of the High Priestess overawed her, and
she shielded her face with her mantle of black.

No tremor passed the face of the High Priestess. It was fixed like a
cold, pale moon in the cloudless sky. She could have slain Nika had she
chosen. Her glistening dagger remained untouched. She heeded it not, but
moved solemnly towards the cowering girl, holding forth her hands as she
approached her, saying:

'Lean on me, fair woman of Rome. I may make thy burden less.'

The eyes of Nika rolled back their maddening look, and gazed into those
of the priestess.

'O Saronia, Saronia, save me! or, if thou canst not, then forgive!'

For the first time the face of the High Priestess relaxed, and it was
veiled with a look of pity.

'Would I could help thee, Nika! In this c