The old people stretched their arms after him, sobbing-- "Cæsar, we did it unwittingly! Take our house, our land, all that we have, but have pity on our son!" The philosophers wished to enter the temple, but the Emperor waved them back-- "I came to the festival alone. I alone will offer the sacrifice!" "Let us go in," he added, addressing Gorgius. "Close the doors, and let none of the unconsecrated enter...." And the doors were shut in the faces of his philosopher friends. "'Unconsecrated?' How do you like that?" asked Garguillus moodily. Libanius stood sulking in silence. Mauricus, with a mysterious air, dragged his friends into a corner of the portico, and touching his forehead with a finger murmured-- "Do you understand?" All were dumbfounded. "Is it possible?" Mauricus began to reckon-- "First, pallor, feverish appearance, disordered hair, irregular step, incoherent speeches; second, excessive harshness and nervousness; third, this stupid war against the Persians!... By Pallas, it clearly means madness!" The friends drew closer, and began to tell each other all sorts of anecdotes. Sallustius, who held aloof, contemplated the group with a bitter smile. Within the temple Julian found Hepherion, who brightened on seeing him, and several times during the rite gazed into the Emperor's face, as if the two had some secret in common. Shining in the sunlight, the colossal statue of Apollo stood in the midst of the temple, its body ivory and its garments golden, like those of the Zeus by Phidias at Olympia. The god, stooping slightly, was pouring the nectar of his cup to the Earth-Mother, praying her to restore him Daphne. A slight cloud passed above the temple. Shadows ran over the time-yellowed ivory. It seemed to Julian that the god benignly stooped still lower, to receive the offering of the last adorers--the weak priest, the apostate Emperor, and the deaf-mute son of the sibyl. "This is my reward," thought Julian. "I wish for no other glory, nor guerdon, O Apollo! I thank thee for the curses of the crowd; and for thy grace, in making me live and die alone, like thyself! There, where the populace prays, there is no god! Thou art here, in this sanctuary profaned. O god, scorned by mankind, now art thou far more beautiful than of old when they adored thee! On the day marked for me by the Fates, let me be joined again to thee, O Radiant One! Let me die in thee, Sun, as the fire of the last offering dies in thy rays!" So prayed the Emperor, tears streaming down his cheeks, and one by one the drops of the victim's blood fell like tears on the half-consumed embers. XIII A profound obscurity enveloped the wood of Daphne on all sides. A hot wind was hunting the clouds along. For days not a drop of rain had fallen on the cracked and arid earth. The laurels were shaking their black branches to heaven. The low roar of the cypresses in their titanic alleys was like the murmur of a crowd of angry old men.