Night on Crotona, night without a star.
I heard the mob, outside the Temple, roaring
Death to Pythagoras! Death to those who know!
Before the flushed white columns, in the glare
Of all those angry torches, Cylon stood
Wickedly smiling. “They have barred the doors.
Pythagoras and his forty chosen souls
Are all within. They are trapped, and they shall die.
It will be best to whet the people’s rage
Before we lay the axe, or set the torch