'In the midst of the temple grove stands one vast ilex,--the tree of trees, sacred to Trivia. The other trees fall back from it in homage; and round it paces the priest, alone in the morning light. 'But his is no holy meditation. His head is thrown back; his ear listens for every sound; the bared sword glitters as he moves ... 'There is a rustle among the further trees. Quickly the boy stretches his brown neck; for at the sound the priest crouches on himself; he throws the robe from his right arm; and so waits, ready to strike. The light falls on his pale features, the torment of his brow, the anguish of his drawn lips. Beside the lapping lake, and under the golden morning, he stands as Terror in the midst of Peace. 'Silence again:--only the questing birds call from the olive-woods. Panting, the priest moves onward, racked with sick tremors, prescient of doom. 'But hark! a cry!--and yet another answering--a dark form bursting from the grove--a fierce locked struggle under the sacred tree. The boy crawls to the furthest end of the branch, his eyes starting from his head. 'From the temple enclosure, from the further trees, from the hill around, a crowd comes running; men and white-robed priestesses, women, children even--gathering in haste. But they pause afar off. Not a living soul approaches the place of combat; not a hand gives aid. The boy can see the faces of the virgins who serve the temple. They are pale, but very still. Not a sound of pity escapes their white lips; their ambiguous eyes watch calmly for the issue of the strife. 'And on the further side, at the edge of the grove stand country folk, men in goatskin tunics and leathern hats like the boy's father. And the little goatherd, not knowing what he does, calls to them for help in his shrill voice. But no one heeds; and the priest himself calls no one, entreats no one. 'Ah! The priest wavers--he falls--his white robes are in the dust. The bright steel rises--descends:--the last groan speeds to heaven. * * * * * 'The victor raised himself from the dead, all stained with the blood and soil of the battle. Quintus gazed upon him astonished. For here was no rude soldier, nor swollen boxer, but a youth merely--a youth, slender and beautiful, fair-haired, and of a fair complexion. His loins were girt with a slave's tunic. Pallid were his young features; his limbs wasted with hunger and toil; his eyes blood-streaked as those of the deer when the dogs close upon its tender life.