Within this cave none but the pure might enter. There was the sacred syrinx—should a woman go therein, the doors closed by invisible hands. If pure, a soft and heavenly strain was heard, and the doors opening of their own accord, the honoured woman appeared crowned with a garland of leaves of pine; but if guilty, sobs and disconsolate weeping were audible, and the people passed away, leaving her to her fate. And after three suns had risen and set, the High Priestess entered, found the cave empty, and the syrinx fallen to the ground.
This was the day Nika would enter the cave. No hope had come. Day after day she had gazed over the blue sea with the vain thought that she might catch a glimpse of her father's fleet returning. Not a vestige of it hove in sight. To the last she buoyed herself with the hope that aid would come and save her from this frightful ordeal; but no. The sky was cloudless, the ocean calm—calm and unruffled as a sleeping child.
The priests and priestesses of the Temple would accompany her in solemn procession, and Nika, clad in garments of black, would be taken to the Sacred Grove. Torch-bearers and heralds would lead them by the tufts of yellow iris down the winding path to the cave, outside which an altar stood, and the great Saronia waited, with head thrown back and hands outspread towards the ground; her raven hair flowed down and lay in waves on folds of costly yellow silk bestudded with stars; her face was calm as death, rigid as a marble statue; emotion showed no place in that mysterious being.
Five beautiful girls, the loveliest of Ionia, priestesses of the goddess, bees of the Temple, waited on her; but the beauty and dignity of the great High Priestess outshone them all, as the rising sun puts out the light of the silvery stars.
The black lamb had been sacrificed to Hecate, and its crimson blood streamed over the altar into the earth.
The priestesses were hidden from view by a turning in the way, and it was only when the last tall lines of myrtles were passed that they could be seen. But the clanging of cymbals was near, the strains of the lyre broke in, and the low tones of the mellow flute kept up a sacred melody.
The first of the heralds drew near the altar sacrifice, stood still a moment, then blew a blast which made the blossoms quiver; and the procession came with measured tread, carrying banners many-coloured, and bearing symbols of the goddess which glittered in the sunlight.
Nika, pale and trembling, stood within a circle of the priests, enveloped by the many standards which they bore.
Suddenly the silken shields were lowered, the circle broke in twain, and formed a guard on either side; and Nika, looking down between the lines, saw the dark face and towering form of Saronia standing by the altar.
With one loud, piercing cry of anguish, the girl rushed madly towards her, and when within three paces plucked a jewelled dagger from her bosom, and made to plunge it into the heart of her former slave.