"Down on your knees! Hear you not the thunder of heaven, the rumbling voice of the Almighty? Will you draw down a shower of fire upon the heads of us all? O, Lord, have pity upon us! Remove the cataracts of burning lava, that, in Your wrath at the impious, You are about to shower down upon them, and, perhaps, upon us also, miserable sinners that we all are! Even the purest of heart can not claim to be irreproachable before Your majesty, O, Lord!" Several fresh claps of thunder, preceded by blinding flashes of lightning, carried the fright of Chram's suite to the highest pitch. The Prince himself did not remain wholly unaffected, despite his innate incredulity, audacity and superb insolence. His pride nevertheless still revolted at the idea of yielding to the bishop's orders, and murmurs, at first subdued, but speedily breaking out in open threats, rose from all parts of his suite, cortege and retinue. "Down on your knees, our Prince--on your knees!" "Insignificant as we are, we do not wish to burn in the fire of heaven for the sake of your and your favorite's impiousness!" "Down on your knees, our Prince! Down on your knees! Obey the orders of the holy bishop--it is the Lord who speaks to us through his mouth!" "Down on your knees, King! Down on your knees!" Chram was forced to yield. He feared to irritate his followers beyond the point of safety; above all, he feared setting a public example of rebellion against the bishops, who were such useful props to the conquerors. Grumbling and blaspheming between his teeth, Chram finally and slowly alighted from his horse and motioned his two favorites Imnachair and Spatachair, both of whom took the hint, to do as he did, and drop down upon their knees. Left alone on horseback, and looking down upon the prostrate crowd, the Lion of Poitiers braved the increasingly loud clatter of the thunder peals with intrepid front and a sardonic smile upon his lips. "Down on your knees!" cried several voices in towering anger. "Down on your knees, Lion of Poitiers!" "Our King Chram has knelt down, and the impious man, the cause of all the trouble through his sacrilegious threats, he alone refuses obedience!" "The blasphemer will draw a deluge of fire upon our heads!" "My sons, my dear sons!" cried Cautin, who was the only one on foot, as the Lion of Poitiers was the only one on horseback. "Let us prepare for death! A single grain of darnel will suffice to rot a muid of wheat--a single hardened sinner will, perhaps, cause the death of us all, however innocent we be. Let us resign ourselves to our fate, my dear sons--may the will of God be done--He will, perhaps, open to us the doors of paradise!" The terrified crowd began to utter increasingly angry cries at the Lion of Poitiers. Neroweg, in whose bosom still rankled the insulting jests of the insolent royal favorite, half rose, drew his sword and cried: "Death to the impious wretch! His blood will appease the wrath of the Eternal!"