Suddenly the noise which he had heard in his dreams was repeated; now there could be no doubt. He heard distinctly the masses of stone striking the waters, and the rush of the waters over them. He knew for a certainty that the barrier of the temple, which was to fall and give access to the light of the sun only on the day when mankind was doomed to be exterminated, had fallen. What his dream had pictured as the plunge of the lion, had been the fall of the outer barrier; and now he had heard the innermost wall—the dreadful veil, the fall of which was to reveal the most terrible spectacle ever enacted on this earth—fall irrevocably into the poisonous lake. In a moment, he thought, the awful ceremony will commence: even now the dead are raised and eagerly expecting the consummation of their hatred; the music is breathing out the solemn, gentle strains, that will soon swell into maddening peals, and rouse the fury of the haters of men from its slumber of ten thousand years. It is no longer a thought: he can hear the weird sounds, which welcome the dead to life, and form a fitting prelude to the awful catastrophe. What can he do? Even now, though the Egyptian should have his hand on the key of the gates of death, Philetos imagines that could he see him face to face, he would forego his revenge, and dare to disobey and dishonour his ancestors. He is certain that this is the work of the priest, and still believes the Egyptian to be his friend. There is one chance still: if he can gain access to the temple he will plead the cause of men, and perchance save them. He rushes from his chamber, and nothing hinders his advance down the dreary corridor that leads to the temple gate. Fleeter than the deer he passes along; the roof re-echoes the tread of his feet, and the hollow clang seems like the shriek of despair; the fitful light of the few flickering lamps is pallid and ghastly, and seems to fall with the greatest intensity on the bas-reliefs, which he knows represent the final sufferings of man. The thick humid air seems to fan him like a wind, so fleetly does he run. In so brief a space has he accomplished the entire length, that hardly could the priest have turned to bar the gate of the temple, even if he had been aware of the object of Philetos. But so engrossed were both he and the Egyptian, that they heard not the advancing steps, and he passed the door, and was already advancing along the central aisle, before he was perceived. On opening the massive gate, a spectacle so terrible met his gaze, that nothing but the lofty purpose with which he was animated could give him strength and courage to pass through the temple.