and fro, and the old man,
failing on his knees, strove to protect the beautiful head, covered
with clustering curls, from striking the stone flags, moaning under his
breath "Now fate has overtaken him too."

Then calming himself, he shouted again and again for help, but in vain.
At last, as he lowered his tones to seek comfort in prayer, he heard the
sound of voices in the avenue of sphinxes beyond the pylons, and fresh
hope animated his heart.

Who was coming at so late an hour?

Loud wails of grief blended with the songs of the priests, the clinking
and tinkling of the metal sistrums, shaken by the holy women in the
service of the god, and the measured tread of men praying as they
marched in the procession which was approaching the temple.

Faithful to the habits of a long life, the astrologer raised his eyes
and, after a glance at the double row of granite pillars, the colossal
statues and obelisks in the fore-court, fixed them on the starlit skies.
Even amid his grief a bitter smile hovered around his sunken lips;
to-night the gods themselves were deprived of the honors which were
their due.

For on this, the first night after the new moon in the month of
Pharmuthi, the sanctuary in bygone years was always adorned with
flowers. As soon as the darkness of this moonless night passed away, the
high festival of the spring equinox and the harvest celebration would
begin.

A grand procession in honor of the great goddess Neith, of Rennut, who
bestows the blessings of the fields, and of Horus at whose sign
the seeds begin to germinate, passed, in accordance with the rules
prescribed by the Book of the Divine Birth of the Sun, through the
city to the river and harbor; but to-day the silence of death reigned
throughout the sanctuary, whose courts at this hour were usually
thronged with men, women, and children, bringing offerings to lay on the
very spot where death's finger had now touched his grandson's heart.

A flood of light streamed into the vast space, hitherto but dimly
illumined by a few lamps. Could the throng be so frenzied as to imagine
that the joyous festival might be celebrated, spite of the unspeakable
horrors of the night.

Yet, the evening before, the council of priests had resolved that, on
account of the rage of the merciless pestilence, the temple should not
be adorned nor the procession be marshalled. In the afternoon many whose
houses had been visited by the plague had remained absent, and now