"Yes! Yes! Death!" came from a crowd of furious voices, so loud that the rattle of the thunder failed to drown the human explosion. Overhead the sky looked like one sheet of flame; the flashes of lightning succeeded one another rapidly, vivid, blinding. The bravest trembled; Prince Chram himself began to regret his jests and sneers at the bishop. Seeing that the Lion of Poitiers remained unperturbed, and that he answered Neroweg's threats and the furious outcries of the crowd with a look of disdain, the Prince said to his favorite: "Come down from your horse and kneel beside us--if you refuse, I shall let them cut you to pieces--never have I witnessed such a storm. You were wrong in threatening the bishop with your switch; I myself regret having used offensive language towards him--the fire of heaven may from one moment to the other drop down upon us." The Lion of Poitiers crimsoned with rage, but realizing the fate that further resistance on his part would draw upon him, he yielded. Grinding his teeth, he followed the orders of Chram, alighted from his horse, and after a further instant of hesitation, dropped upon his knees and shook his fist at Cautin. The bishop, who had remained erect, towering above the cowering crowd at his feet, answered the gesture of the Lion of Poitiers with a look of triumph that he cast upon Chram and his favorites; he regaled his eyes by letting them wander over the Prince, his favorites, the assembled leudes, the servants and slaves--all bowed down to the earth with fear and respect before him. Relishing his signal victory he said to himself: "Yes, we triumph! Yes, royal stripling, the bishop is mightier than you. There you are at my feet with your forehead in the dust." The bishop then knelt down himself and cried out aloud in a penetrating voice: "Glory to Thee, O Lord! Glory to Thee! The impious rebel, seized with holy terror bows down his haughty forehead. The devouring lion has become the most timid lamb before Thy divine majesty. Calm Thy just wrath, O Lord! Have mercy upon us all, here upon our knees before Thee! Dissipate the darkness that obscures the firmament! Remove the fiery clouds that the obduracy of a sinner drew over our heads! Deign, O Almighty Lord to give a public manifestation that the voice of Thy unworthy servant has reached Thy throne!" The prelate said many more admirable things, now measuring and grading his utterances of grace and mercy according as the storm receded and subsided, just as, at its approach, he modulated his threatening words. The skilful man closed his conjuration to the roll of the receding thunder--"the last rumblings," he said "of the Eternal's angered voice," finally appeased by his prayers. Soon thereupon the sky cleared; the clouds dispersed, the sun shone anew in all its pristine splendor; and the royal cortege, now again as serene as the sky, resumed their tramp towards the burg of Neroweg singing at the top of their voices: