Artemisia listened with an expression of horror on her face.

"I do not see where they are going to get the children now," Thais remarked. "They have all been sent away."

"They are taking the children of the Israelites who remained here," the Syrian explained, "and they say--at least, Mena says--they are going to sacrifice a virgin, too. Ugh! I don't want to see it."

"Little good will it do them!" Thais exclaimed. "Not even Baal can save their city now."

"Hush!" the Syrian said, affrighted. "He is a great God."

Sounds of commotion and of hurried footsteps in the lower halls of the house interrupted them. Thais listened.

"Go and see what it is," she commanded.

The Syrian went, and in a moment came flying back into the room with terror on her face.

"Oh, my mistress!" she cried. "Why did you speak so of Moloch? His priests are in the house! Save us!"

"Silence!" Thais exclaimed, rising to her feet. "You shall not be harmed."

She raised her head proudly and faced the doorway, while the slave women huddled behind her with frightened eyes. Artemisia stood beside her, trying to emulate her courage; but a strange sinking laid hold upon her heart, and a mist swam before her eyes.

There was a rush of feet outside, and four black-robed men, followed by a guard of soldiers, entered. Their leader was a man of stern and grave expression, whose eyes seemed to glow in his pale face with the power of his compelling will. He was Hiram, who had been chosen hastily to act as chief priest when Esmun failed to return from the royal palace. His ascetic countenance contrasted strongly with the gross faces of his followers, brutalized by self-indulgence. The other priests both feared and hated him, for it was said that Baal had endowed him with powers that were beyond the understanding of man.

"What seek ye here?" Thais demanded, flashing a haughty glance at the zealot.

He paid no heed to her and made no answer. His dark eyes caught those of her companion and held them.

"Artemisia!" he said, in a solemn voice that sounded like a summons, "our Lord, Baal-Moloch, the Saviour, awaits thee! Come with us to his temple."

To Artemisia the words sounded far away; yet she heard them distinctly, and they seemed to leave her no choice but to obey. A deep sense of peace crept over her as she looked into the fathomless eyes of the priest, that were fixed steadfastly upon hers, and from which she could not withdraw her own. Dimly she felt that never again should she see Clearchus or behold the land of Attica. Never should she hear his beloved voice or feel his arms around her, clasping her close to his breast. It was the will of the Gods. Everything earthly seemed to recede and fall away from her as in a dream, leaving her alone with the grim priest, her master. They two were floating upon a mighty current that was bearing them, she knew not whither. She was at peace, and all was ended. The terror she had felt a few moments before had left her.

It seemed remote and long ago, and she smiled to think of it and of how foolish it had been.

Hiram saw her form droop and her muscles relax, and these signs of his victory did not escape him. The expression of his face did not change, however, and he still kept his eyes fastened upon hers. The sombre figures of his subordinates stood motionless beside him, and the soldiers of his guard, lean and weather-worn, blocked the doorway, glancing now at the two young women and now at the slave girls cowering in the background.

"Come with me!" Hiram said quietly, stretching his strong hand toward Artemisia.

She made an uncertain step toward him, but Thais caught her by the arm and drew her back.

"What do you mean by this mummery?" she cried, with blazing eyes. "Get thee gone and tell thy God that Artemisia is not for him!"

"Chafe not, daughter," Hiram replied calmly. "The will of Baal must be obeyed. There can be no escape."

"You shall not have her!" Thais cried. "Your creed demands a willing sacrifice!"

"And she is willing," the priest said, in the same even tone.

"She is not!" Thais said.

"Follow me!" Hiram exclaimed, slightly raising his voice.

Artemisia made a feeble effort to obey, and Thais felt the arm that she held draw away from her grasp.

"Sorcerer!" she cried desperately, retaining her hold, "she is not willing of her own will. Release her from thy spell!"

"She is willing," Hiram repeated, "and thou shalt see her place herself voluntarily in the hands of the Giver of Life."

He made a slight sign, and the three priests who followed him stepped forward. One of them twisted Thais' hand from Artemisia's arm, retaining her wrist in his clutch, while another seized her on the opposite side, rendering her helpless. The third took Artemisia gently by the hand. She offered no resistance, but suffered herself to be led down the marble stairs with wide-open eyes that seemed to see nothing.

Thais followed between her captors. Her face was pale to the lips, and yellow flames danced in her eyes.

"Priest of Baal!" she said, "thou hast shown no mercy and none shalt thou receive--neither thou nor thy God!"

"Blaspheme not," Hiram said; "the vengeance of our Lord is bitter."

"More bitter still shall be the vengeance of men," Thais exclaimed in her despair, "and they are now beating at the walls who shall make thee feel it!"

Hiram made no reply. If he felt a misgiving, his face did not betray it. He led the way with measured tread down the staircase, followed by his two captives and by the guard.

"Artemisia!" Thais cried in anguish, "speak to me!"

Artemisia made no response, nor did she turn her head. It was evident that she had not heard. Laying aside her pride, Thais determined to make a final effort. When they reached the deserted entrance hall, she raised her voice.

"Phradates! Phradates!" she cried. "Save us from these men!"

Her cry echoed through the recesses of the hall, but it brought no response.

"Phradates!" Thais called again as the outer doors swung back, revealing the wind-swept street.

This time a figure emerged from the marble columns. It was that of Mena the Egyptian, who advanced with a malicious smile upon his sharp face.

"My master is upon the walls," he said impudently, though he bowed low.

"He is fighting to save the city from your friends."

Something of the suppressed triumph in his bearing struck the attention of Thais, agitated as she was.

"Is this thy work?" she demanded, looking at him between narrowing eyelids. "Thou shalt pay for it, slave, upon the cross, to the last drop of thy blood!"

"Thou dost me too much honor," Mena replied, bowing again in mock humility.

"Come," said one of Thais' captors, roughly. "Baal must not be kept waiting."

The slanting rain smote their faces as they emerged into the street, where throngs of men and women were crowding toward the Temple of Moloch. On this side, as yet, nothing could be seen of the fierce conflict that was raging for the possession of the children in the Hebrew quarter. The sounds of it were lost in the rushing of the wind and the crashing of the thunder.

The people of Tyre hastened forward in silence and with bowed heads. A nameless dread possessed them. Amid the confusion wrought by man and the elements, friends and neighbors touched shoulders without a glance of recognition. A weight of oppression seemed to dull their minds and restrict their lungs. They were like creatures that listen furtively in hidden terror to catch the forewarning of some catastrophe, the nature of which they know not. All bonds were dissolved. Husbands became separated from their wives in the press and made no attempt to rejoin them.

Even the priests of Moloch who followed Hiram were affected by the universal uneasiness, and Thais felt the hands that clasped her wrists tremble. Hiram himself walked gravely and slowly, apparently oblivious of what was going on about him. He seemed indifferent alike to the pelting of the storm and the danger from falling stones. A mass of rock plunged into the crowd close before him, crushing a man beneath its ponderous weight. The step of the pontiff did not waver, and he passed the spot without so much as a glance at the mangled body pinned down by the missile. His consciousness of the protection of Moloch freed him from all sense of personal danger.

The people made way for him in silence, huddling to the sides of the street and closing in after the soldiers had passed. Artemisia walked with her eyes upon the sombre figure that strode before her. Her face was as colorless as the linen chiton that clung to her figure in the rain, disclosing the maidenly outline of her bosom. Her breathing was even and regular, as though she were sleeping with open eyes.