“Then Alexander called his soothsayer, and they set up an altar before the king’s tent; and there, with the torch-lighted hosts of the foe before them, they sacrificed to Holy Fear.
“When the hour of battle came, did Alexander therefore fail? No! The next day’s sun shone on his victory; and ere it set poor Darius was a fugitive, and his conquerer proclaimed Emperor of Asia.
“Ion, thy danger is in rashness and in passion. Guard thyself, boy! To-night, I pray thee, ere thou sleep, go out alone on to the topmost terrace of the college, and there in silence gaze for a little while into the cloudless sky and consider the torchlights of God’s great invisible encampment, cycles and cycles of being, a measureless life of which we know not the figure nor the language. And when, so gazing, the fever of thy soul shall be somewhat cooled, do thou also sacrifice to Holy Fear!”
Ion listened at first with downcast eyes, then looking earnestly at the speaker; and when the exhortation was ended, before taking his seat, he went to kiss respectfully the fringe of the master’s sash.
Into the pause that followed there broke a sudden clash of bells all struck together.
The master and pupils glanced at each other and all rose, uncovering their heads.
Tacita recognized the familiar à morto of Italy. It signified here that some one was dying.
The clash changed to a melody, and they all sang together the hymn that had been sung that night in Venice:—
“San Salvador, San Salvador,
We cry to thee!”