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 grove, where the dryads' balmy breath cools our brows,—here, before the glorious temple of the glorious god, lapped in the melodies of flute and lyre,—here, in light, in happiness, in safety, the god himself made manifest among us.
Where is the God of the Galileans? Where is the Jew, the carpenter's crucified son? Let him manifest himself. Nay, not he!
'Tis fitting, then, that we should throng the sanctuary. There, with my own hands, I will perform the services which are so far from appearing to me mean and unbecoming, that I, on the contrary, esteem them above all others.
[He advances at the head of the procession, through the multitude, towards the temple.
A Voice.
[Calling out in the throng.] Stay, ungodly one!
Julian.
A Galilean among us?
The Same Voice.
No further, blasphemer!
Julian.
Who is he that speaks?
Other Voices in the Crowd.
A Galilean priest. A blind old man. Here he stands.
