Sanson was too shrewd not to see immediately that he had struck the wrong note. He swung himself about, facing the captives on the opposite span, and his voice reverberated through the Temple. “You have demanded sacrifices, human sacrifices,” he cried, “and you shall have them, but not in honor of the Ant. There is no Ant, no God. But there is Freedom, hidden within the cylinder where she has lain since the beginnings of time, waiting for this day to dawn, now ready to emerge into a world set free. To her we sacrifice!” He stood there, a dramatic figure, the incarnation of rebellious pride, Lucifer defying God, or some old Titan in revolt against Olympus. But, as he paused, the cracked voice of the old bishop piped through the Temple. “But I can give you eternal life, my people,” he cried clearly. “I have the Word that alone can set you free. It is the same that Bonham spoke to you in Westminster Hall while he was burning. You heard him and went home, and some were afraid, some wondered, and some forgot; but that Word never dies, and it will be told soon in a million homes, because, by God’s mercy, the Russians are at hand to set you free.” The deep-breathed “Ah!” that followed was not of hate but of fear. Something was stirring in the hearts of the multitude, molding them against knowledge and will. I felt it, too: a mighty spiritual power, a Light that clove the darkness. I saw the old bishop stand out at the end of the span and shake his clenched hand at Sanson, silent, opposite. “You cannot raise one finger save by the will of Him whom you deny, Sanson!” he said. “You are not going to make any sacrifices. You, who have raised your will against heaven, this night your soul will be required of you!” The sense of something imminent and mighty shook my limbs. I stood up, clinging against the grille. There was no sound in all the Temple. Protagonists in the eternal drama, the bishop and Sanson faced each other. Suddenly I perceived that the solar light above the bishop had moved. It had moved outward; and now it was approaching me. And the light above Sanson was moving, too. I understood what was happening. Sanson had quietly given the command for the bridges to be swung together. An instant later the little lights that crossed the gloom were dissipated as ten thousand more flashed out, illumining the vast interior of the Temple. I saw the packed multitudes below, thousands on thousands, their faces upturned, each with the same stamp of fear on it, as if the same workman had carved the features. I saw the groins and arches, the gallery above me, filled with the Guard; Sanson upon one nearing bridge, his Guard about him, too; upon the other, David, Elizabeth of the slender figure and the clasped hands, and Bishop Alfred and the rest of the prisoners. I waited, my arms about Esther. Once more I heard a single sigh float upward. Then the woman’s voice that had shrieked before cried piercingly: