The two started simultaneously to their feet. Not long before, young Ambiorix, who was then not yet possessed by the fanatical patriotism which now mastered him, had admired her beauty and sweetness of manner, and had had day-dreams of her as the goddess of his own hearth. Then a stronger love had come in the place of the old. It was not of woman, but of Britain free among the nations, as she had been before the restless eagles of the South had found her, that he thought day and night. Still, he could not calmly hear her doomed to a horrible death, and for a moment he was ready to rebel against the sentence of the priest. The older man was terribly agitated. He had been for many years on the friendliest footing with the Count, a frequent guest at his table, almost an intimate of the house. And Carna was an especial favourite with him. Her sweetness, her simplicity, and a pathetic resemblance that she bore to a dead daughter of his own, touched him on the best side of his nature. “Priest,” he thundered, “it shall not be. I would sooner the whole scheme came to ruin; I would sooner die. A curse on your hideous worship!” The priest had now crushed down the risings of human feelings which his training had not sufficed to eradicate. “You have sworn by the gods,” he said, “and you cannot go back. If you do not hesitate to betray Britain, at least you will not dare to betray yourself. You know the power I can command. Go back from your promise to follow my leading, and you are a dead man. You are faithful?” he went on, turning to Ambiorix. “You do not draw back?” The young chief returned a muttered assent. The older man, meanwhile, was in a miserable condition of indecision and terror. Unbeliever as he was, having long since given up the faith of his fathers, and never accepted the doctrine of the church but with the emptiest formality, he had not put from his breast the superstitious fear that commonly lingers when belief is gone. And he knew that the priest’s threatened vengeance on himself was no empty boast. The strength of Druidism had passed, but it still had fanatics at its command, whose daggers would find their way sooner or later to his heart. The cold, cynical look with which he had entered on the conference had given place to mingled looks of rage, remorse, and fear. “You must have your own way,” he muttered, sullenly. “My son,” said the priest, in a tone which he made studiously cautious, “what is one life in comparison with the happiness and glory of our nation? You, I know, would shrink from no sacrifice, and, believe me,” he added in a lower voice, for he had to play off the two rivals against each other, “believe me, whatever sacrifice you make shall not miss its reward.” CHAPTER XII. LOST.