Of saving those Pythagoras wished to save;
Counting gold dross, and serving his pure gods.
The Master said it. What is your judgment, then?”
He stretched one hand, appealing to the crowd,
And one to the white still Temple.
“Death! Death! Death!”
Under the flaring torches, the long waves
Of tense hot faces opened a thousand mouths,
Little blue pits of shadow that raced along them,
And shook the red smoke with one volleying roar,—