Hail, thou Archegos, founder of the city, Crowned with oak leaves, cherishing the olive, Grapes with thy water annually flushing, Father Nemausus. Thou to the thirsty givest cool refreshment, Thou to the herdsman yieldeth yearly increase, Thou from the harvest wardest off diseases, Father Nemausus. Seven are the hills on which old Rome is founded, Seven are the hills engirdling thy fountain, Seven are the planets set in heaven ruling, Father Nemausus. Thou, the perennial, lovest tender virgins, Do thou accept the sacrifice we offer; May thy selection be the best and fittest, Father Nemausus.” Then the priests and priestesses drew up in lines between the people and the fountain, and the ædile of the city, standing forth, read out from a roll the names of seven times seven maidens; and as each name was called, a white‐robed, flower‐crowned child fluttered from among the crowd and was received by the priestly band. When all forty‐nine were gathered together, then they were formed into a ring, holding hands, and round this ring passed the bearers of the silver image. Now again rose the hymn: “Hail, holy fountain, limpid and eternal, Green as the sapphire, infinite, abundant, Sweet, unpolluted, cold and clear as crystal, Father Nemausus.” And as the bearers carried the image round the circle, suddenly a golden apple held by the god, fell and touched a graceful girl who stood in the ring. “Come forth, Lucilla,” said the chief priestess. “It is the will of the god that thou speak the words. Begin.” Then the damsel loosed her hands from those she held, stepped into the midst of the circle and raised the golden pippin. At once the entire ring of children began to revolve, like a dance of white butterflies in early spring; and as they swung from right to left, the girl began to recite at a rapid pace a jingle of words in a Gallic dialect, that ran thus: “One and two Drops of dew, Three and four Shut the door.” As she spoke she indicated a child at each numeral, “Five and six Pick up sticks, Seven and eight Thou must wait.” Now there passed a thrill through the crowd, and the children whirled quicker. “Nine and ten Pass again. Golden pippin, lo! I cast, Thou, Alcmene, touched at last.” At the word “last” she threw the apple and struck a girl, and at once left the ring, cast her coronet of narcissus into the fountain and ran into the crowd. With a gasp of relief she was caught in the arms of her mother, who held her to her heart, and sobbed with joy that her child was spared. For her, the risk was past, as she would be over age when the next septennial sacrifice came round. Now it was the turn of Alcmene.