They found themselves in the vestibule of a little vacant temple, its ancient and massive columns ill-lighted by the flicker of a lamp.
"Push-to the door!" and Phyllis, softly laughing, threw her warm cloak upon the ground. When Agamemnon took her into his arms, it seemed to him that round his body had coiled some warm lithe snake, with wide and terrifying eyes. At that moment from the interior of the temple came harsh cacklings, and such a gust of beating wings went past that the lamp nearly went out. Agamemnon disengaged his arms from Phyllis' waist and stammered—
"What in the world was that?"
In the dense darkness white forms were slipping by them like so many ghosts. Thoroughly frightened, Agamemnon crossed himself.
"What is it? May the Holy Cross protect us!"
Something stoutly nipped his leg. He yelled with pain and fear, but seizing one of his unknown enemies by the throat, he poignarded another. Deafening cries arose, followed by squeals and repeated battlings of wings. The lamp flickered for the last time, and Phyllis cried, laughing—
"They are the ganders! the holy ganders of Priapus! What a crime you have committed!"
Pale and trembling, the conqueror stood holding in one hand the bloody dagger and in the other two slain ganders. A crowd carrying torches burst with shouts into the temple, led by Scabra, the old priestess of Priapus. This dame had been peacefully supping in a neighbouring tavern when the trumpeting of the ganders had raised the alarm. Gathering a train of nocturnal prowlers she had rushed to the rescue. Hook-nosed, with unkempt grey hair, and eyes blazing like two steel points, the old priestess looked nothing less than a fury. She shouted—
"Help! help! The temples are desecrated, and the holy ganders of Priapus slain! And see here, here are the foul Christians!"
Phyllis fled, enveloping her face in the cloak, while the crowd dragged off Agamemnon, so cleanly taken aback that he never thought of relaxing his grip upon the ganders.