The Gothics bore a black cross before them. It was so heavy that twelve men had to carry it, pantingly. It swayed, held up by dark cords.
And on the cross hung the monk Desertus.
The black flames of the eyes in the flame-white face were fixed upon the procession of dancers. The head was raised. The pale mouth was opened.
“See!” shouted the monk Desertus in a voice which all-powerfully out-rang, the fourfold tone of the archangel bells, the rushing of the organ, the choir of scourge-swingers and the shrieks of the dancers: “See—! Babylon, the great—! The Mother of Abominations—! Doomsday is breaking—! The destruction of the world—!”
“Doomsday is breaking—! The destruction of the world—!” chanted the choir of his followers after him.
“Dance—dance—dance—Maohee—!” shrieked the voice of the girl leading the dancers. And she swung her torches over her shoulders, and hurled them far from her. She tore her gown from shoulders and breasts, standing, a white torch, stretching up her arms and laughing, shaking her hair; “Dance with me, Desertus—dance with me—!”
Then the girl, dragging herself along at the end of the train, felt that the cord, the invisible cord upon which she was hanging, snapped. She turned around and began, not knowing, whither, to run—only to get away—only to get away—no matter where to—only to get away—!
The streets flashed by in a whirl. She ran and ran, down, and down, and at last she saw, running along the bottom of the street and towards her, a wild mob of people, saw, too, that the men wore the blue linen uniform and sobbed in relief:
“Brothers—brothers—!”
And stretched out her hands.