incomparable sanctuary, the very house of Apollo which seems scarcely to be the work of human hands. Does not the image of the Glorious One stand within it, in unviolated beauty? Not a corner of his altar has broken or crumbled away, not a crack is to be seen in the stately columns.
Oh, when I think of this,—when I feel the fillet round my brow—when I look down upon these garments, dearer to me than the purple robe of empire, then I feel, with a sacred tremor, the presence of the god.
See, see, the sunlight quivers around us in its glory!
Feel, feel, the air is teeming with the perfume of fresh-woven garlands!
Beautiful earth! The home of light and life, the home of joy, the home of happiness and beauty;—what thou wast shalt thou again become!—In the embrace of the Sun-King! Mithra, Mithra!
Forward on our victorious way!
[The procession moves on again, amid the plaudits of the crowd; those in front come to a stop at the mouth of the narrow street, through which another procession enters the market-place.
Julian.
What hinders us?
Hekebolius.
Gracious lord, there is something amiss in the other street.
Song.
[Far off.
Blissful our pangs, be they never so cruel;
Blissful our rising, the death-struggle o'er.
