The slaves, meanwhile, with tunics tucked up, were going about on
tiptoe; from time to time a hymn sounded on the lyres, or a choir of
voices rose. The clamour of the people, continuous as the noise of
the sea, floated vaguely around the feast, and seemed to lull it in a
broader harmony; some recalled the banquet of the Mercenaries; they gave
themselves up to dreams of happiness; the sun was beginning to go down,
and the crescent of the moon was already rising in another part of the
sky.
But Salammbo turned her head as though some one had called her; the
people, who were watching her, followed the direction of her eyes.
The door of the dungeon, hewn in the rock at the foot of the temple, on
the summit of the Acropolis, had just opened; and a man was standing on
the threshold of this black hole.
He came forth bent double, with the scared look of fallow deer when
suddenly enlarged.
The light dazzled him; he stood motionless awhile. All had recognised
him, and they held their breath.
In their eyes the body of this victim was something peculiarly theirs,
and was adorned with almost religious splendour. They bent forward to
see him, especially the women. They burned to gaze upon him who had
caused the deaths of their children and husbands; and from the bottom
of their souls there sprang up in spite of themselves an infamous
curiosity, a desire to know him completely, a wish mingled with remorse
which turned to increased execration.
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