The following day, ordinances were proclaimed that suppressed the magistracy of the priests and notables and instituted new jurisdictions—although, as the former claimed to take no account of them, conflicts ensued.
Pnemphra, conducted by his four guards before a freshly-installed tribunal under the presidency of Coulikuli, demanded the usual judges of his corporation, and, by bribing one of his guardians with gold, succeeded in having his request granted. A troop of armed temple servants—who habitually filled the role of agents of public order—was sent to take charge and delivery of his person, with secret orders to set him free immediately. That was accomplished without encumbrance, Coulikuli only having received theoretical authority as yet, without the material force necessary to ensure their respect. The ex-metalworker, however, rising to the height of circumstances at a single bound, immediately issued a decree that declared the jeweler a rebel and sequestered his property.
So prompt and so swiftly-executed was that unexpected decision that Pnemphra, wanting to enter his home, found the door closed and this enemies inside. Now, the house containing, as was publicly notorious, abundant provisions of food and many ingots and precious jewels, there was no lack of good will for the attack and the defense. Soon, the entire neighborhood was divided into two camps, and the blows began to rain down on either side. Even the master cutter did not take long to find that the assailants were sustaining his cause with excessive zeal, for, in their ardor to expel the intruders, they did not hesitate to stave in the shutters and batter breaches in the walls.
After a two-hour siege, a column of smoke swirling above the half-demolished house permitted no doubt as to the definitive outcome of the assault, and the jeweler, tearing his hair, cursed his adversaries and protectors indistinctly, accusing them of his ruination.
Illaz received a visit from Ruslem.
The old man, curbed by the weight of defeat, his hands trembling, his eyes burning with tears and insomnia, had come to make one last effort, to beg the victor of Lamb’ha not to let his triumph be debased. Why, in spite of his promises, was Soroé not free and on her way to the western isles, where she would spend her life, ignored? If it required a ransom, the pontiff as willing to surrender the treasures of the temple accumulated over the centuries by his ancestors...
But the pretender, raising his head, rejected the shameful bargain.
“I’ve warned Nohor, who has her under his guard. Have no fear for her while he sees that I have a chance of reigning—and my party is growing by the hour. But your collaboration would be welcome. Your followers are still numerous, especially your devotees. Employ your wealth and influence in my favor; Illaz will not be ingrate. And even ancient projects might be renewed...”
He was thinking that no alliance, after all, would be worth as much to him as that of the royal virgin. Yerra, vanquished, would remain too dangerous. Argall, dead or embarked, would be forgotten sooner or later. In any case, he did not make any further or more precise allusion, certain of being understood by implication. And Ruslem, under no illusion, did not contradict him.
It was important, above all, for the moment, to save Soroé from death.
Illaz’ popularity was increased that day by a new element. Thousands of innocent mouths, in timid voices—and all the more persuasive for it—were celebrating his courage, his magnanimity and his justice: all the recognized royal virtues of that favorite of the gods. In the intervals, they occupied themselves with Nohor’s captive, recalling her misfortunes, her touching dignity and her beauty. They commented on the prophecy that seemed to link her fate with the very salvation of Atlantis. The fact that she had accepted to die in order that her people might become masters of their own destiny was devotion worthy of the blood of Argall that ran in her veins—but would her people merit salvation if they let her perish, and by such a death?
Thus spoke old men, women and girls. Their surprising boldness would once have marked them for sacrifice, but there would not be any more sacrifices! The partisans of Illaz had declared them abolished.
Meanwhile, Nohor and his colleagues displayed their crimson stoles under the colonnade of the temple. Their armed servants maintained order as well as they could, at least in the rich quarters; and Yerra’s guards came and went between the royal dwellings, silent and arrogant, glittering with gold and steel.
Toward the port, in the lower city, unoccupied artisans grouped around orators, ardently discussing the measures to be taken—for necessity imposed some kind of action; on that point, agreement was universal. Illaz’ distributions and Ruslem’s gold had not provided an efficacious antidote to the increasing poverty, rapidly turning to famine. All work had ceased. The merchants and employers were lying low in their locked dwellings, or had abandoned them, taking their most precious possessions with them. At every minute another was sacked—but the pillage did not enrich anyone. Hundreds of houses were burning.
Gradually, the idea spread, became more precise and determined, and crystallized in minds, of a vast movement to be operated, a great blow to be struck, which would put everything back in place and reestablish abundance. Undoubtedly, the signal would have to be given by Illaz, but Illaz could not triumph without the aid of the people, the true masters of the situation, powerful in their own right, the arbiters of their own fate and that of Atlantis. There was nothing to hope for from Yerra, in fief to the party of the rich, the eternal oppressors, waiting in the depths of their secure habitations for famine to bring the indocile and decimated herd back under the yoke.
The following day, there were no distributions of food. The rumor spread that an immense convoy, arriving from the north, hundreds of cartloads of grain, with their teams of oxen and thousands of pigs and sheep, enough to flood Atlantis with victuals, had been stopped two hours from the capital on the account of a group of merchants overtly protected by Nohor.
Those provisions it is true, were their property, bought with their coin and sent by their agents to the great starving city, but in that very fact, their malice became glaring. They were taking possession of the last resources of the country in order to ensure themselves the power to distribute them as they saw fit, at the price that suited them. The poor had no more to sell but themselves, only too glad if anyone wanted to put them in the collars of slaves. Their masters, doubtless, would nourish them then! Those who were too proud had no alternative but to die.
The news, in that idle and overexcited multitude, propagated in the blink of an eye. Propositions were exchanged, violent, puerile and unrealizable—but the dominant idea, common to all, stood out all the more clearly, of a great effort to be made, an assault to deliver, an obstacle to destroy. Beyond that there was abundance, liberty, salvation, and also revenge, the crushing of the oppressors.
What had they to fear? Nohor and his servants? Yerra and her guards? But Illaz and his vassals were sufficient to hold them in check. The rich? It was twenty against one—and they had nothing to lose.
The groups swelled, melting by degrees into a seething mass. Everyone armed themselves at hazard. There was no lack of swords or spears; the armorers’ shops had been the first to be pillaged. Axes, hammers and sticks substituted for them where necessary. A few filled a fold of their cloak with stones, and were perhaps not the least redoubtable.
It was necessary, however, to know what was wanted of them, where to march. The assemblies were seething on the spot.
Suddenly, a voice rose up: the hoarse voice, with the timbre of a hoarse cockerel, of a young boy—and twenty, and then a hundred voices, saluted the resurrection of Foski, the jeweler’s apprentice. His fight against his master, the fat Pnemphra, as well as the affection of his sister Nizia, and above all, the protection of Illaz, had rendered him popular.
“It’s Foski!”
“Hello, Foski!”
“You aren’t dead, then?”
“There’s one who isn’t afraid!”
“If you’d seen him playing the drum with his feet on the jeweler’s belly…!”
“Illaz cared for him like his own son.”
“Do you know that he’s just been talking to the pretender?”
“You can say: to the King!”
“Long live Illaz!”
“Long life to the new King of Atlantis!”
“Tell us what we must do, Foski!”
“Lend me your back,” said the adolescent to the author of the last question. “That’s what I’ve come for, but I’m not tall enough. People need to see me.”
There were bursts of laughter, and Nizia’s brother was hoisted up on to the shoulders of two blacksmiths. All eyes turned toward him.
He raised his hand, pale and resolute. “There is food in Yerra’s abode... There is food in Nohor’s abode... But you’d prefer to die like dogs than live like men. Me, I’m only a boy, but I defended myself. I’ll defend myself again if I must, while a breath remains in my lungs and a drop of blood in my veins. You were there, a hundred against one, whose cause was my cause, but you didn’t lift your little fingers. And now, you’re asking me what to do?”
For a second, he fell silent, his expression scornful. Some of those who had seen him half-stifled by Pnemphra had a desire to complain, but the crowd applauded. Certainly, the child’s courage was an example to all real men! Then, evidently, he knew something, was speaking about food supplies as if he had seen them. What did it matter that he was small?”
He went on: “What it’s necessary to do, another has told you, whom you have abandoned. Who among you was not at the judgment of the royal virgin six days ago? Who does not recall the words of the holy book that she cited? Can you not see the prophecy being realized? The victim has been condemned, and the fate of the people rests in their own hands. Now, it depends on you to save yourselves or perish. She’s waiting for her execution in the priests’ palace…which is full of grain, and whose triple wall doesn’t prevent the lowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep being heard. But you’re afraid of Gold and Iron!”
He laughed, disdainfully. Protestations burst forth.
“We’re not afraid of anything!”
“We’re the masters!”
The majority did not care about Soroé at all, but those who remained faithful to her understood Foski’s intention, skillfully styled by Ruslem. The priestly residence invaded, the royal virgin would be saved. Certainly, in addition, provisions would be found there; and that first success, relatively facile, would encourage the people for the decisive battle. Undoubtedly, the temple servants would defend themselves, but the incomparable numerical superiority of the assailants and the very extent of the enclosure left no uncertainty as to the result.
“If you’re not afraid,” said Foski, “follow me! Soon, you really will be the masters!”
He was cheered. The two smiths, proud and docile, started marching at a steady pace. The entire mass moved off. Those who had heard nothing followed confidently, having the apprentice’s words repeated. It was not necessary to understand everything. They were marching on Nohor’s palace, where food was abundant. Soroé would be liberated. They would be supported, if necessary, by Illaz’ troops, perhaps by the great vassal in person—for suddenly, one of the equerries of the pretender, or, rather, the new King, richly dressed in his colors, emerged from a side street, came to talk to Foski in a low voice, with an air of deference, while maintaining his horse with difficulty, the overly familiar crowd having made it nervous. From then on, Nizia’s brother enjoyed a limitless prestige. At least ten thousand men were pressing behind him, and their number was increasing by the minute.
Yerra was preparing to go back to the new palace, resolved to leave the capital to its own devices for a while. Illaz’ intrigues and their apparent progress did not worry her. The famine, which he would strive in vain to remedy, would soon put an end to them. The populace, seeing only him, after having hoped for everything, would not fail to hold him responsible for their woes. Between now and then, the castle offered a sure retreat.
It was to complete its food supplies that a certain number of her guards had gone to wait, two hours’ march away, in order to commandeer a part of the convoy. The rest had been sent various positions known to the chiefs of the rich quarters, whose devotion warranted their being spared privations.
If his politics appeared to offer a mediocre threat, the pretender’s position as leader of an army gave her even less concern. Day by day, his miners and foresters, the heroes of Lamb’ha, were allowing themselves to be won over by the seductions of the capital, only showing themselves in the quarters that had been assigned to them to collect their pay, and above all food, which was never in default for them. Severity in their regard was out of the question. Undoubtedly, one ought still to count on their devotion, as well as their courage; but hours would pass, in case of urgency, before they could be reassembled in battle order.
His personal guard and vassals of the warrior caste were the only force authentically disposable by Illaz. The royal companies remained three times as numerous. But neither of the two adversaries could possibly want a battle in which their troops, equally valorous, would end up destroying one another, leaving the victor at the mercy of the Atlantean proletariat. So Yerra’s cavaliers moved very tranquilly between the city and the new palace, and even beyond, as they had just done, in fact; and the greater part having received the order to precede their sovereign, at the moment when she set forth she only had two hundred around her chariot.
Ortiz was on the point of expressing some anxiety on that subject, but his mistress, he knew, did not like remonstrations. He thought that the wisest thing to do was to leave without delay and complete the journey rapidly.
Then again, everything seemed calm. The tumultuous assemblies of recent days had not crossed the limits of the lower city, the populous streets, separated from the royal residence by a broad zone of rich quarters, where a deathly silence reigned.
The square of sacrifices between the palace and the temple was deserted; the avenue of aristocratic dwellings, extending their sumptuous façades amid a double row of parks and gardens, was also deserted.
They went past the priestly residence, mute behind its triple walls. A little further on, they had to cross the Triumphal Way before reaching open country.
At that point, the avenue described a quarter-circle. The view was limited. Ortiz called a halt, and sent a few cavaliers forward. Yerra scarcely had time to ask the cause of the halt before they came back at the gallop announcing the approach of a multitude. A flood of people was coming up the Triumphal Way, reaching the crossroads formed by the two highways. They would have to cut through it—no one dared propose beating a retreat.
“Through or over,” said Ortiz. “But that would put the Queen at risk.”
“They’re armed,” observed one of the guards, “And I heard them acclaiming Illaz.”
The situation was evidently grave. Ortiz turned to Yerra. “Let’s go back to the old palace. We can sustain a siege there, if necessary. But within an hour our comrades will be alerted. They’ll come back, and we’ll disperse this rabble.”
Yerra, frowning, reflected. The rolling of a chariot was heard.
“It’s Nohor,” said the equerry, after darting a glance at the part of the avenue they had just traveled.
The pontiff arrived in a whirlwind of dust, pale at the news brought by his spies: the mass of the people was marching on the priestly residence to liberate Soroé.
Yerra looked at him fixedly. “Is she still alive, then?”
The pedant stammered. He had not thought there was any urgency. She was a precious hostage...
The young woman interrupted him. “Enough! We don’t have time to waste. Are you sure, at least, that she can’t escape?”
The pontiff made a gesture of certainty. “Oh! If, they don’t liberate her by force...!”
“Good. We’ll settle that account later.”
Again she reflected. Returning to enclose herself in the old palace would scarcely delay her defeat. Illaz would block the return of her companies and would have time to reassemble his miners. Retrenched in some favorable position, as obstinate as they had been at Lamb’ha, they would oppose an invincible resistance. The cavaliers would break against it. The people, meanwhile, a hundred against one, directed if necessary by Iztemph, or Illaz himself, would put an end to Ortiz and his troop, or starve them out. The priestly residence, with its immense boundary, would soon be taken. Confronted by such a prospect, Nohor would not consent to Soroé’s rapid execution. He would put her in shelter, easily enough, in some hiding-place known to him alone.
She regretted letting her rival out of her own hands. She should have had her killed before her eyes…or killed her herself. She had made errors since Lamb’ha. Illaz was not such a contemptible adversary, after all. She had also been too disdainful of the people. Nothing was lost yet, however. There was one awkward step to take, and beyond...
For a second, she closed her eyes and smiled at the radiant vision. A profound rumor passed in a gust on the breeze, like the distant sound of waves. Ortiz drew closer. Nohor dared to touch the sovereign’s arm. The first ranks of the crowd were visible at the turning of the avenue. An acclamation rose up, in which the name of Illaz was audible.
“What are your orders, O Queen?” Ortiz asked.
White-faced, Nohor suggested: “The Palace of the Council has several exits...”
Yerra’s eyes flashed. “Several…one of which is to the Desolate Hill,” she pronounced, in a cold tone. “You would do well to remember that, Nohor—if not, I shall remember it for you…no, this isn’t the moment for protestations. Go back to your residence; keep the gates closed, and have no fear...of anything except disobeying me! Go!”
The pontiff would have given a great deal for a full explanation, but Yerra’s tone and the rapid approach of the crowd did not leave him the courage to insist. He bowed as a sign of submission.
His chariot swerved and flew away like an arrow. In the opposite direction, a hundred and fifty paces away, the people were blocking the avenue.
The equerry, even though it was contrary to all etiquette, requested orders for the second time.
“Shall I order an about-turn, O Queen?”
She looked at him, her lips slightly parted, her cheeks pink, a spark of malice gleaming beneath the silky blonde of her eyelashes. He had never seen her more tranquil, more cheerful, more radiant.
He thought he understood, and, quivering himself with ardor and joyous pride, his hand on the hilt of his sword, he said: “It’s for you that I fear, O Queen. But say the word, and we’ll go through.”
She laughed heartily, shaking her vermilion curls. The two hundred warriors turned to her, some having heard and the others divining what their chief had said, sensing the ardor of heroic devotion blazing within them. Raising themselves up in their stirrups, they imitated Ortiz’ gesture and repeated his words:
“Say the word, and we’ll go through!”
Their attitude was so significant that the insurgents’ advance guard stopped dead, a hundred paces away. Even Foski’s two porters became conscious of his weight for the first time, moved gradually apart, and let him slide down to the ground between them.
At first, the apprentice was not sorry; his legs were beginning to go numb—but his situation was immediately diminished. Those behind him could no longer see him.
Meanwhile, Yerra addressed herself to Ortiz, but in such a way that her words reached the ears and the hearts of all of them:
“You’d pass through blood: yours, which I value more than all the treasures in Atlantis, and that of those unfortunates, who are also my subjects. No, no—not one drop will be shed if I can prevent it. Leave the swords in their scabbards; I wish it! And only draw them in absolute self-defense.”
They obeyed, with a foundation of regret—and also of hope, for the attitude of the crowd was nothing less than pacific. The first ranks were somewhat hesitant, before the evidence that a charge by the escort would inflict terrible ravages on them, but the followers, who already sensed that they were further away from the danger, were murmuring at finding themselves stopped; the reason was not apparent to them. Several, no longer perceiving Foski, blamed it on him. What an idea, to choose a child for a leader!
What they could all see was at least the heads and shoulders of the cavaliers, the line of gold and steel of glittering helmets. It was now blocking the entire avenue, eight rows deep, and without a command having been uttered, for Ortiz was maneuvering his troop by means of signs, all of them understanding that a word or a gesture would being all blades into the sunlight unleash the thunder of hooves and the equine avalanche.
But the word or gesture did not come; there was nothing but an imperceptible movement of the files toward the sides, leaving a gap in the center broad enough for a chariot to pass through. In that chariot a woman was standing, one hand holding the reins, the other negligently applied to the gold-painted rim, from which a crimson drape hung down.
The horses, although the most pure-blooded and full of fire, instantly obeyed the slightest appeal of that light and sovereign hand, seeming to be proudly conscious of the precious burden confided to their docility.
The interval between one troop and the other was crossed in a few seconds. The first ranks of the crowd hollowed out in their center, as if divided by the sculpted pommel of the helm, framing the abruptly-immobilized chargers, quietly chewing their bits. The nearest, by stretching out their arms, would have been able to touch the sides of the chariot, the supple floating tunic.
All of them could see the adorable face, the divine smile of her lips and eyes. Never had any of them contemplated her thus. She was no longer, as on days of judgment or sacrifice, the impassive, inaccessible, distant royal idol, in her omnipotence as in her superhuman beauty. The Immortal appeared as a woman, disarmed of everything except her own charm, the pure radiance of her being, at the mercy of a brutal fist.
She smiled. The soft silk espousing the exquisite curve of her cleavage allowed the even alternating rise and fall of her bosom to be discerned, the regular pulsation of her breast.
She spoke, quite simply, without gestures. Her voice flattered the ears like a caress, vibrant nevertheless, carrying the syllables a long way. Although the suddenness of the movement had surprised her, she was not unaware of the agitations of the lower city, the profound seething of the multitudes, and what words had a chance of touching them
“Is it me that you’re looking for, my friends? Have you something to ask of me?”
A hundred responses rang out, confusedly. The crowd sensed its impotence to express its desire, if it had one.
A few, half-convinced and half-mocking, called out: “Foski!”
The apprentice, deprived of his living pedestal, had disappeared, swallowed up by the flood. Some, however, pointed him out with their gazes and gestures. The young woman’s eyes were seen to look down, in an exploratory fashion, without any appearance of disdain but with a hint of astonishment.
“That child is your leader?” she asked.
Laughter burst forth. Foski’s prestige was decidedly evaporating. He was conscious of his negligibility himself, finding himself devoid of hatred before this creature of light and grace, who crushed him with softness by means of a benevolent inflexion.
He had not forgotten the other, however: the victim, also so beautiful, and threatened by such a death! He imagined the impossible marvel: Yerra merciful, saving her rival. He extended his arms in supplication.
“Mercy for Soroé, O Queen!”
A few hundred of the faithful echoed: “Mercy for Soroé!”
The young woman’s face expressed surprise. “Ruslem’s daughter? It’s mercy for her that you’re demanding?”
The mass undulated, hesitantly. The majority, all things considered, did not care about Ruslem’s granddaughter. A hoarse voice shouted: “What we’re demanding, first of all, is bread!”
The author of the exclamation a broad-shouldered stone-cutter, had translated the true thought of the crowd. The crowd applauded. Voices, this time in thousands, repeated: “Yes, yes, bread!”
Others insisted: “A convoy has arrived. We know that.”
One added: “It’s your warriors who’ve stopped it.”
With an inclination of the head, Yerra admitted the fact. The crowd growled, immediately hostile
Impassively, the young woman continued: “My warriors have retained that which I can buy: enough to nourish you all for a day, perhaps two…or the most unfortunate among you for a week. I would have liked to do more, but I no longer have any more. Ruslem’s daughter has exhausted the royal treasury. It’s easy to take without paying…once. But afterwards, who will want to bring us more food? What laborer will surrender his crop, what shepherd his flock? Shall we send armed men to village the farms and villages? Do you think that will reestablish abundance in Atlantis?”
They listened, stupefied, having never thought about those things. At that moment, however, under the impression of that lucid speech, they appeared to them as clear as daylight. But then the consequence imposed itself. The treasury exhausted, all work suspended, was, in any event, famine. Their number, their weapons and their courage would not change anything.
Someone cried out: “There are some who have gold, however!”
Yerra breathed out, sure henceforth of victory.
A silence had followed the artisan’s cry, heavy and stormy, betraying the effort of reflection of dull minds, the abrupt tension of covetousness. With a glance, she scanned the thousands of faces, the sharp gazes, the quivering nostrils, the taut lips pulled back over gums, uncovering the teeth of carnivores
“I only know of one place,” she pronounced, slowly, “where the gold you need can be found.”
The silence was one of amazement. Then a formidable clamor rose up; a single word sprang from twenty thousand mouths, the roar of wild beasts scenting prey.
“Where?”
She made a sign to indicate that she would speak, without haste now, certain that they would hear her out to the end. And she explained, told them that her treasury was empty, that Nohor and his colleagues were ruined, their temple and their palace stripped by Ruslem and his daughter between the Bloody Day and that of Lamb’ha. Even Illaz had seen his coffers emptied. The war and the scourges had devoured those resources, partly at least, for Ruslem would not have neglected that opportunity to increase the centuries-old accumulation of so-called sacred riches, the monstrous piles of gold heaped up in the crypts of the ancient temple, so colossal that its possessors had been unable to count it, so heavy that a hundred carts would not be sufficient to take it away all at once.
Eyes rolled in their orbits; the ocean of heads undulated; inflated breast held their breath momentarily, and exhaled in unison in a bitter and raucous clamor, a gasp of furious desire.
A few voices, in vain, rose up in favor of Ruslem, of Soroé, accused without evidence. The evidence would be found in the ancient temple; at the same time, they would force the old starver to make restitution. Neither he nor his daughter—who was certainly not unaware of the secret—the miserly custodians of that prodigious opulence, would merit a shadow of pity.
Foski tried to protest; one of the two blacksmiths who had carried him in triumph a little while before threatened him with his fist, and would have crushed him. The generous child mourned his vanished dream.
Yerra went on: “That gold is yours. Not one particle of it has been extracted from the ground without the people paying with their sweat…and their blood! Illaz and Ruslem will try to hold you back. It is for you to decide whether you want to feed your hunger, slake your thirst and work as you wish…to be free! Every handful of gold represents the freedom of a slave, the independence of an artisan, the wellbeing and leisure of a life. And for each of you who are listening to me, the crypts of the ancient temple contain ten times, twenty times as much.”
Pressures were produced. The most impatient or the most cunning were already seeking to detach themselves from the mass. Others, more prudent, thinking that Ruslem would die without talking, demanded to know how to find the entrance to the subterrains.
Yerra hesitated momentarily—but her power and her life were at stake, and power reconquered and assured opened up other perspectives: the love of Argall and the superhuman adventure! Compared with that, what did the pillage of the ancient temple matter, even the ruination of Atlantis?
The Queen, constrained to do so, told them: “The entrance to the crypts is in the second nave, dissimulated by a pivoting flagstone. Ruslem alone knows the secret, but with picks and levers, you’ll have no need of him…or anyone.”
The effect of those words, although she had anticipated it, surprised her by its promptitude. Before the last syllable had been uttered, the crowd stampeded, passing to the right and the left of the motionless chariot, enveloping it as a river besieges the pile of a bridge, dividing there and embracing it in its eddies.
Already, Ortiz was anxiously standing up in his stirrups; Yerra only just had time to turn her head and address a hand-signal to him that was fortunately understood. The cavaliers doubled up their files, allowing the torrent to flow past. The avenue in front of them opened up like a dammed lake when the levee is broken.
Soon, even the laggards disappeared around the bend. The Queen and hr guards were alone. She beckoned to them to rejoin her and released her hand; the impatient horses surged forwards.
A few minutes later, Nohor, trembling behind his triple walls, pricked up his ears and paled with fear. But the rumor, after increasing briefly, died away in the distance. In vain, Foski and a few others had made one last effort. While the crowd flooded past the priestly residence, skirting the enclosure, a volley of stones frightened the birds in the trees, but the mass, launched full tilt, heads down, did not stop until they reached the temple of the ancient gods.
Even hunger was forgotten before the dazzling mirage of gold.