Meanwhile, the fatal crisis nears, and Damon, delayed by the loss of his steed, comes not. The stroke of time on the dial-plate against the temple dedicated to the Goddess of Fidelity moves unrelentingly forward. All is ready. The tyrant, his skepticism confirmed, is there, indignant at the soul that in its fling of proud philosophy had made him feel so outsoared and humbled. Pythias, agitated between a dreadful suspicion of his friend and the fear of some unforeseen obstacle, parts with Calanthe, and prepares for the beheading steel. A vast multitude on the hills stretch their long, blackening outline in the round of the blue heavens, and await the event. "Mute expectation spreads its anxious hush O'er the wide city, that as silent stands As its reflection in the quiet sea. Behold, upon the roof what thousands gaze Toward the distant road that leads to Syracuse. An hour ago a noise was heard afar, Like to the pulses of the restless surge; But as the time approaches, all grows still As the wide dead of midnight! A horse and rider in the distance, By the gods! They wave their hats, and he returns it! It is--no--that were too unlike--but there!" Damon rushes in, looks around, exclaims, exultingly,-- "Ha! he is alive! untouched!" and falls, with a hysterical laugh, exhausted by the superhuman exertions he has made to arrive in time. He soon rallies, and, when his name is pronounced, leaps upon the scaffold beside his friend; and all the god comes into him as, proudly erecting his form, he answers,-- "I am here upon the scaffold! look at me: I am standing on my throne; as proud a one As yon illumined mountain where the sun Makes his last stand; let him look on me too; He never did behold a spectacle More full of natural glory. Death is-- Ha! All Syracuse starts up upon her hills, And lifts her hundred thousand hands. She shouts, Hark, how she shouts! O Dionysius! When wert thou in thy life hailed with a peal Of hearts and hands like that one? Shout again! Again! until the mountains echo you, And the great sea joins in that mighty voice, And old Enceladus, the Son of Earth, Stirs in his mighty caverns. Tell me, slaves, Where is your tyrant? Let me see him now; Why stands he hence aloof? Where is your master? What is become of Dionysius? I would behold and laugh at him! _Dionysius._ Behold me! Go, Damocles, and bid a herald cry Wide through the city, from the eastern gate Unto the most remote extremity, That Dionysius, tyrant as he is, Gives back to Damon life and freedom." Like one struggling out of a fearful dream, the phantom mists receding, horror expiring and brightening into joy, the great actor lifts himself, relaxes, staggers into the arms of his Pythias, and the curtain sinks. The people, slowly scattering to their homes, do not easily or soon forget the mighty agitation they have undergone. BRUTUS.