“Why hast thou uttered that dread name?”
Hark! he doth admit he loveth her no more; the mother of his children. His new love is a priestess too, and he calleth her Adalgisa; he hath entreated her to fly to Rome with him. Still he speaketh, when booming on the night air is heard the sound of bells, and behold the air is suffused with soft moonlight.
Then the Romans fled—for again the sacred march rippled through the air; louder and louder, as they came to the high altar. Norma—proud as ever; defying fear and walking grandly amidst them all.
On she comes to the sacred oak, bearing a golden reaping hook in her right hand. High she mounts the steps of the grand altar, as the sacred fires flicker in the breeze, and as the stately march rolls on. She knows there have been mutterings of hate against the Romans—fearlessly she bids them live in peace till she tells them to raise their arms. Terribly she threatens those who shall take no heed of what she says; she stands there in power unspeakable, and they tremble before her.
Then she cuts the sacred misletoe, and as it falls from the trees it is caught in a pure white cloth. High does the chief priestess cast her eyes to the placid moon, as she prays for its blessing.
“Chaste goddess, whose silver beams deign to fall on our sacred plant—let thy rays come to us unshadowed by a cloud. Calm these rash men who thirst for war; calm them; spread over our land the peace and quiet of thy boundless sky.”
See how they bow the head before their great high priestess as she addresses the greatest emblem of their faith.
Then she turns her face from the illuminating moon, and high above them speaks the ordeal which they believe their god speaks to them through her. See how they bow as she tells them she—she only will utter the war-cry—let their swords rest till she bids them flash from their scabbards.
The sacred rites are ended. Solemnly the reverend men have moved away. The priestess is perhaps fondling her two children. The sacred fires die out, and for a little the altar stands deserted in the midst.
Then comes Adalgisa, trembling and prostrate. See her kneeling before the altar, the sacred fires flickering dimly here and there. What a contrast is she to Norma, who walks proudly and fears naught! Adalgisa is bowing, trembling; no mighty prayer issues from her lips, but a timid appeal. Yet she thinks of the Roman who loves her and whom she loves. Then as she confesses this to herself, she bows lowly before the altar of the temple she has shamed; and yet heavily she trembles as she thinks of the chief priestess and the decree, if she but discovers that Adalgisa loves the enemy.