Anatolus.
Who, sire? Where?
Julian.
Do you not see them—yonder—high up and far away! You lie! You see them well enough!
Anatolus.
By the immortal gods, they are only the morning clouds,—’tis the day dawning.
Julian.
’Tis the hosts of the Galilean, I tell you! Look—those in the red-edged garments are the martyrs who died in blood. Singing women surround them, and weave bowstrings of the long hair torn from their heads. Children are with them, twining slings from their unravelled entrails. Burning torches——! Thousandfold—multitudinous! They are hastening hitherward! They are all looking at me; all rushing straight upon me!
Anatolus.
’Tis the Persians, sire! Our ranks are giving way——