His clothes caught fire. He ran for some time, a living torch, along by the girl. His voice sounded as if from the blaze: “Maria—! Maria—!” Then he swung himself up on to the parapet of the street and hurled, a streak of fire, into the blackness of the depths. “Maohee—! Maohee—!” called the girl, shaking her torch. The procession was endless. The procession was endless. The street was already covered, as far as the eye could see, with circling torches. The shrieks of the dancers mixed themselves sharply and shrilly with the angry voices of the archangels of the cathedral. And behind the train, as though tugged along by invisible, unbreakable cords, there reeled a girl, the damp hem of the hose dress lashed about her ankles, whose hair was falling loose under the clawing fingers which she pressed to her head, whose lips babbled a name in ineffectual entreaty: “Freder.... Freder.....” The smoke-swathes from the torches hovered like the grey wings of phantom birds above the dancing train. Then the door of the cathedral was opened wide. From the depths of the cathedral came the rushing of the organ. There mixed itself in the fourfold tone of the archangel bells, in the rushing of the organ, in the shrieks of the dancers, an iron-tramping, mighty choir. The hour of the monk Desertus had come. The monk Desertus was leading on his own. Two by two walked those who were his disciples. They walked on bare feet, in black cowls. They had thrown their cowls back from their shoulders. They carried the heavy scourges in both hands. They swung the heavy scourges in both hands, right and left, right and left, upon the bare shoulders. Blood trickled down from the scourged backs. The Gothics sang. They sang to the time of their feet. To the time of their scourge strokes did they sing. The monk Desertus was leading the Gothics on. The Gothics bore a black cross before them. It was so heavy that twelve men had to carry it, pantingly. It swayed, held up by dark cords. And on the cross hung the monk Desertus. The black flames of the eyes in the flame-white face were fixed upon the procession of dancers. The head was raised. The pale mouth was opened. “See!” shouted the monk Desertus in a voice which all-powerfully out-rang, the fourfold tone of the archangel bells, the rushing of the organ, the choir of scourge-swingers and the shrieks of the dancers: “See—! Babylon, the great—! The Mother of Abominations—! Doomsday is breaking—! The destruction of the world—!” “Doomsday is breaking—! The destruction of the world—!” chanted the choir of his followers after him. “Dance—dance—dance—Maohee—!” shrieked the voice of the girl leading the dancers. And she swung her torches over her shoulders, and hurled them far from her. She tore her gown from shoulders and breasts, standing, a white torch, stretching up her arms and laughing, shaking her hair; “Dance with me, Desertus—dance with me—!”