The shutters were closed. The Mede was preparing something on the ground; suddenly a slight crackling was heard; everybody was silent and a flame rose in a long red tongue amidst wafted flakes of white smoke, which filled the room. Nogodarès put his pale lips to a double flute, and played a languid, plaintive air, like the funeral songs of the Lydians. The flame grew yellow--grew fainter, then sparkled anew in pale flashes. The sorcerer threw into the fire a handful of dried herbs. They evaporated in a penetrating aroma which brought on the senses an indefinable melancholy, like the perfume of half-withered grasses, on some misty evening, in the arid plains of Arachosia and Drangiana. Obeying the plaintive call of the flute, a huge serpent slid out of a black box placed at the feet of the magician, and slowly, with a sound as of parchments rubbed together, unwound its glittering and metallic coils. The wizard chanted in a broken voice, which seemed to come from afar, and several times repeated the same syllables, "_Mara, mara, mara!_" The serpent coiled itself round his thin body and caressingly, with a tender hissing, brought its flat green head and brilliant carbuncled eyes close to the ear of the enchanter. A whistling, and the forked sting flashed, as if the reptile had murmured its secret to its master, who now threw the flute upon the ground. The flame filled anew the room with thick smoke, this time diffusing an odour choking as if exhaled from the tomb. The flame went out. Darkness and fear possessed all present; everybody felt it difficult to breathe. But when the open shutters allowed the leaden light of the dusk to enter, there remained no trace of the snake or of the black box. Notwithstanding this, everybody's face was livid. Nogodarès approached the tribune-- "Rejoice! Favour--great and speedy favour--awaits thee from thy great master Augustus Constantius!" During several moments he scrutinised the hand of Scuda narrowly. Then, stooping to the level of his ear, muttered, so as to be heard by none but the tribune-- "This hand is dyed with blood--the blood of a great prince!" Scuda grew afraid. "What dost thou dare to say, cursed hound of a Chaldean? I am a loyal servant." But the other probed him with his searching eyes and half ironically responded-- "What dost thou fear? Given a few years.... And is glory won without the spilling of blood?"