Anger raged in Thais' breast as in that of a lioness, bound with chains, which sees her cubs taken from her. She knew the hopelessness of struggling with her captors, for even if she could free herself, she would still be powerless to rescue Artemisia.

Around the gloomy temple stood thousands of men and women, mournfully and silently waiting in the rain for the procession to enter. The great bronze doors stood open, revealing the dark interior of the building, where a few torches cast a flickering light upon the face of the monstrous idol, whose cruel features seemed to be twisting themselves with hideous grimaces.

Streamers of pale blue smoke were drawn through the apertures over the head of the image by the wind, and the inside of the temple was filled with a smoky haze that increased the obscurity. This came from the fire of scented wood that the priests had kindled in the body of the idol. They fed it continually from behind; and the faint smoke, rising from carefully disposed openings in the breast and shoulders of the figure, partially veiling its face, added to the mystery and solemnity of the ceremony.

As Hiram approached the entrance, two lines of black-robed priests issued silently to right and left, pushing back the crowd and forming a lane which led up the two flights of shallow stone steps to the doorway. The spectators reverently bowed their heads. Their faith in the power of Baal, bred in them from infancy, was strong upon them, and deep was their fear of his wrath. Many times had he listened to their prayers, and more than once had he refused to listen, permitting the calamity that they besought him to avert. But never since he had become their God, at a time beyond the limit of tradition, had they gone to him in such dreadful extremity. Would he intervene, or would he leave them to their fate?

All eyes were turned to the impassive face of Hiram, searching there for an answer to the question that was in every mind. The chief priest gave no sign. He paced slowly into the open space between the ranks of the priests, his black vestments fluttering about him in voluminous folds. His eyes looked straight forward into the temple, seeking the face of Baal. In his footsteps walked Artemisia, her head now drooping slightly, like a flower cut from its stem. The priests began a slow chant, so low that its words of praise could hardly be understood.

Halfway up the second flight of steps, behind the row of priests, Pethuel appeared in the crowd. He had managed somehow to reach the temple in advance of his flock. The rain glistened upon his white hair and snowy beard. Pressing forward as Hiram advanced, he raised his voice above the mystic words of the chant.

"Priest of Baal!" he cried to his rival, "thy God is fled! Behold, his image shall be broken in thy temple. The wrath of the Lord God of Hosts is upon you; for the cup of Tyre's iniquities runneth over!"

He ceased and a murmur ran through the crowd; but no hand was raised against the old man. The priests looked at Hiram, who passed on without so much as turning his eyes, and they continued their chant.

Not even when the brother who walked beside Artemisia was struck down by an arrow on the threshold of the temple did Hiram pause. The shaft, falling obliquely, buried itself between its victim's shoulders, and he fell upon his face in his death agony. His comrades lifted him quickly and bore him out of sight; but the people continued to gaze at the stain of blood upon the stones where he had fallen.

As Artemisia and Thais vanished in the doorway, the sounds of conflict caused by the rising of the Hebrews reached the temple.

"It is Alexander!" said one to another in the crowd, and because of the words of Pethuel, the cry was more easily believed. Panic seized upon the multitude. Thousands of those who had assembled fled back to their homes. Others ran toward the royal palace, and still others sought the harbors. Scores found refuge in the temple, fighting with each other to enter first through the wide doorway. The dread that had weighed them down had taken shape. The evil was upon them.

CHAPTER XLVI

THE PASSING OF A GOD

Inside the Temple of Baal-Moloch the chant of the priests swelled to a triumphant hymn of praise. The throbbing of drums and the droning of strange musical instruments increased the volume of sound. It drowned the uproar of the conflict between the guards and the Israelites, who had reached the gardens of the temple, and it rose above the wailing of the infants destined for the sacrifice. The children were held by the priests, who formed in a deep semicircle before the idol. The throng of devotees filled the body of the temple beyond their line and the dim reaches of the arcades behind the rows of columns.

The pungent smell of smoke from the sacrificial fire was mingled with the odor of incense that floated from censors swung by neophytes clad in robes of scarlet.

Amid the crowd that burst into the temple in such numbers as to forbid all semblance of the usual ceremonial order, rose the image of the Giver of Life and its Destroyer, gigantic and terrible. Its broad breast glowed dull red, and a spurt of flame issued from its sneering lips like a fiery tongue. The terror that had driven the people into the temple gave way to awe when they found themselves in the presence of the God. Many of the votaries fell upon their faces before the colossal figure; others stretched their hands toward it in an agony of supplication. Sharp cries pierced the maddening pulsations of the music. The gusts of the storm, entering through the opening in the temple roof, drove the smoke in eddies through the obscurity.

Hiram walked straight to the idol and prostrated himself upon the lowest of the steps that rose to the platform on which it stood. He remained for a moment in silent prayer, and then, rising, he stretched forth his arms and repeated the ancient formula that always preceded the sacrifice, calling upon the God by the numerous titles that signified his manifold attributes.

Artemisia stood behind him, within the half-circle of priests who held back the eager crowd. Her white garments gleamed pure and spotless against the background of their sombre official robes. Her head was slightly bowed, and her hands were clasped lightly before her. She seemed utterly oblivious of her surroundings and the terrible fate that awaited her. Thais, firmly held by the priests who had brought her to the temple, was stationed by her captors on the left hand of Baal, in a position that prevented her eyes from meeting Artemisia's gaze. The angry color had faded from her cheeks. She realized at last that Artemisia was lost and that she herself must endure the agony of seeing her perish. Her face had grown haggard and drawn.

"Spare her, priest of Moloch!" she cried desperately, as Hiram ended his invocation. "Her death cannot save thy city. Give her back to me, and I promise thee thy safety and the safety of thy order. If thou needs must sacrifice a woman, let me be the victim. I am fairer than she, and I will be more acceptable to thy God. See, I beg her life at thy hands!"

She would have thrown herself upon her knees, but the priests restrained her. Hiram made no reply and paid no heed to her appeal.

Ascending the steps with a firm tread, he stood between the feet of the idol and turned to the multitude, extending his hands over Artemisia's head with the palms downward. The chant ceased and the music died away. Only the frightened sobbing of the infants, whom the assistants sought in vain to quiet, broke the silence within the temple. Hiram began to speak in a solemn and impressive voice.

"We bring thee, O Lord, a maiden, pure in heart," he said. "We have sinned against thee in our pride; upon her head we place our sins; take thou her and forgive!"

He paused, and a wailing cry of supplication rose throughout the temple.

"We have neglected thy worship," Hiram went on. "Upon her head be our neglect; take her and forgive! We have done those things that are forbidden; upon her head be our disobedience to thy law; take her and accept our atonement! We have disregarded our oaths; upon her head be our perfidy; receive her in quittance of our debt to thee. Pardon us, O Lord, in this our sacrifice to thee, all our many sins against thee, and protect us out of thy mercy in this hour of our great peril!"

At the conclusion of the recital, he turned again to the God. The arms of the idol slowly sank and extended themselves until the outstretched palms were brought together before the iron knees a few feet from the floor.

"Artemisia!" the chief priest called imperatively.

With faltering steps she obeyed his command, advancing slowly until she stood before the broad palms that seemed to tremble with impatience to clasp her form. In the deadly hush of expectancy, the fierce cries of the Israelites, struggling with the soldiers outside the temple, could be distinctly heard. Hiram saw that haste was necessary if the sacrifice was to be accomplished.

"Dost thou give thyself willingly for the sins of Tyre?" he demanded, confident of his power.

Before she could answer a shriek rang through the temple.

"Deny him, Artemisia, my sister!" Thais cried. "He is a sorcerer. Do not--"

Her voice was roughly stifled by the priests, her captors, but a questioning murmur rose from the crowd.

"Answer!" Hiram said sternly, bending all the strength of his merciless will upon her.

"Artemisia! Do not answer!" cried another voice. It was the voice of a man, and it rang strong and clear, though it vibrated with anxiety.

It seemed to issue from the dark recesses behind the idol. A stir of astonishment broke the spell that had imposed silence upon the worshippers. Every eye strove to pierce the gloom of the sanctuary.

Hiram started, and his pallid face grew a shade paler.

"Artemisia!" came the clear voice again. "Dost thou not hear me?"

Artemisia's eyes left those of the chief priest and looked beyond him eagerly into the darkness. The mask of impassiveness faded from her face. Her lips parted.

"Clearchus!" she cried. "Where art thou? Save me! Save me!"

She threw up her arms with a despairing gesture, and sank upon the platform beneath the terrible hands that were stretched to seize her.

"Alexander! Alexander!" shouted Chares out of the darkness. "Down with the dogs!"

The words were followed by a cry of mortal agony from one of the priests whose duty it was to feed the fire that roared inside the idol.

The Tyrians heard the sound of a brief commotion in the rear of the temple, they saw the gleam of armor and of weapons, and the dark hangings that veiled the innermost shrine were rent from the walls.

Armed men rushed across the platform and leaped down among the priests, hewing at the holy ministers with flashing swords.

In the obscurity, the Tyrians fancied that an entire company of Macedonians was upon them. Those who had sought refuge there from the Hebrew mob forgot the dangers that awaited them outside and surged toward the entrance. But the Israelites had scattered the soldiers in the gardens, and they charged the doors just as the assemblage attempted to force its way out. The fugitives from the terrors of the temple were struck down in heaps upon the threshold.

Hiram alone retained his presence of mind. He had implicit faith in the power of the terrible deity, in whose service he had spent the greater part of his life, and absolute confidence in the efficacy of sacrifice. When he saw Artemisia fall and heard Chares' battle-cry, he knew that all was lost unless the offering could be consummated.

Unmindful of his own danger, he bounded forward and raised the slim, unconscious form in his arms. Quickly he laid it upon the iron palms, with a muttered prayer. There was a sound of creaking chains, and the hands ascended slowly, bearing upward the slender figure. One bare, white arm hung inertly between the iron fingers, and the snowy chiton shone through the smoke against the dark bulk of the monstrous image.

Clearchus sprang out of the darkness and saw Artemisia raised aloft in that pitiless grasp. She was already beyond his reach. A cold sweat broke out upon his body. He stood for an instant transfixed with dread, unable even to cry out. Every heart-beat brought her nearer to that glowing metal surface, whose terrible heat he could feel upon his face where he stood.

Hiram stepped forward to the edge of the platform and stretched out his arms. The glare of religious madness shone in his eyes.

"Peace, peace!" he cried to the struggling and shrieking mob, frantic with fear. "Baal-Moloch accepts the sacrifice. Peace! Profane not his temple!"

His voice was drowned in a crash of thunder that seemed to rend the sky across from mountain to sea. Before it died, a huge mass of rock, hurled from an engine of the Macedonian fleet, crashed through one of the openings in the dome of the temple. The ponderous missile struck the masonry and bounded backward and downward in a shower of dislodged stones upon the inclined head of the idol.

Moloch seemed to rise from his throne, as though about to stride from the platform. His iron arms flew apart, and the grim colossus lurched forward down the steps, and fell with a clang of metal upon the marble floor.

A sharp cry rose from the struggling crowd. Those who witnessed the downfall of the sacred image stood in doubt, unable to believe their eyes. The Israelites, unaware of what had happened, took advantage of the moment to overcome the slight opposition of the Tyrians who still faced them. They rushed into the temple, crying aloud for the restoration of their children.