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Did you not feel it? That tree there swayed so that the branches whistled through the air.

Hark, hark, hark!

'Tis the roll of chariots on the pavements.

'Tis the sound of drums. Hark to the music, the Emperor is coming!

[The procession of Apollo advances from the right through the grove, and stations itself amid music of flutes and harps, in a semicircle in front of the temple.

[Turning towards the temple, with upstretched hands.] I accept the omen!

Never have I felt myself in such close communion with the immortal gods.

The Bow-Wielder is among us. The earth thunders beneath his tread, as when of old he stamped in wrath upon the Trojan shore.

But 'tis not on us he frowns. 'Tis on those unhappy wretches who hate him and his sunlit realm.

Yes,—as surely as good or evil fortune affords the true measure of the gods' favour towards mortals,—so surely is the difference here made manifest between them and us.

Where are the Galileans now? Some under the executioner's hands, others flying through the narrow streets, ashy pale with terror, their eyes