The lions of
the temple of Moloch had become ferocious, and the hierodules no longer
durst approach them. They were fed at first with the wounded Barbarians;
then they were thrown corpses that were still warm; they refused
them, and they all died. People wandered in the twilight along the old
enclosures, and gathered grass and flowers among the stones to boil
them in wine, wine being cheaper than water. Others crept as far as the
enemy's outposts, and entered the tents to steal food, and the stupefied
Barbarians sometimes allowed them to return. At last a day arrived when
the Ancients resolved to slaughter the horses of Eschmoun privately.
They were holy animals whose manes were plaited by the pontiffs with
gold ribbons, and whose existence denoted the motion of the sun--the
idea of fire in its most exalted form. Their flesh was cut into equal
portions and buried behind the altar. Then every evening the Ancients,
alleging some act of devotion, would go up to the temple and regale
themselves in secret, and each would take away a piece beneath his tunic
for his children. In the deserted quarters remote from the walls, the
inhabitants, whose misery was not so great, had barricaded themselves
through fear of the rest.
The stones from the catapults, and the demolitions commanded for
purposes of defence, had accumulated heaps of ruins in the middle of
the streets.
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