of rapture Apollo outpoureth.

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The Procession of Prisoners.
Bones racked and riven, flesh seared to a coal,
He shall make whole!
The Procession of Apollo.
Gladsome to bask in the light-sea that laves us!
The Procession of Prisoners.
Blissful to writhe in the blood-death that saves us!
[The processions pass each other during the singing. The crowd in the
market-place looks on in dull silence.
SCENE THIRD.
The sacred grove around the temple of Apollo. The portico, supported by
columns, and approached by a broad flight of
steps, is seen among the trees in the
background, on the left.
A number of people are rushing about in the grove with loud cries of
terror. Far away is heard the music of the
procession.
Women.
Mercy! The earth is quaking again!
A Man in Flight.
Oh horror! Thunder beneath our feet——!
Another Man.
Was it indeed so? Was it the earth that shook?
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A Woman.
Did you not feel it? That tree there swayed so that the branches whistled
through the air.
Many Voices.
Hark, hark, hark!
Some.
’Tis the roll of chariots on the pavements.
Others.
’Tis the sound of drums. Hark to the music——, the Emperor is coming!
[The procession of Apollo advances from the right through the grove, and
stations itself amid music of flutes and harps, in a semicircle in front of the
temple.
Julian.
[Turning towards the temple, with upstretched hands.] I accept the omen!
——
Never have I felt myself in such close communion with the immortal gods.
The Bow-Wielder is among us. The earth thunders beneath his tread, as
when of old he stamped in wrath upon the Trojan shore.
But ’tis not on us he frowns. ’Tis on those unhappy wretches who hate him
and his sunlit realm.
Yes,—as surely as good or evil fortune affords the true measure of the
gods’ favour towards mortals,—so surely is the difference here made
manifest between them and us.
Where are the Galileans now? Some under the executioner’s hands, others
flying through the narrow streets, ashy pale with terror, their eyes
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starting from their heads—a shriek between their half-clenched teeth—
their hair stiffening with dread, or torn out in despair.
And where are we? Here in Daphne’s pleasant gr