the child
into the burning pile.

The conflagration had extended to the wooden roofs of the houses around
the Forum. A chaplet of flame began to inwreathe the square. The heat
and smoke were stifling, and the furniture seemed to travel
automatically above the heads of the crowd toward the incandescent kiln
through the dense sooty atmosphere. Lachares and his elegant friends
began to talk of death. Those effeminate beings discussed with sublime
tranquility the manner of their end. They did not wish to follow
Sonnica, who had just armed herself with sword and shield to sally forth
against the besieging camp and die fighting. It was repugnant to them to
think of struggling with rude, half-savage soldiers, to inhale their
wild-beast odors, and to fall with their painted faces cleft by a blow,
covered with blood, and wallowing in gore like a beheaded ox; neither
did it please them to stab themselves--that was a means reserved for
heroes. They preferred to die in the flames; they recollected the
sacrifice of the Asiatic queens who perished in a fire of perfumed
woods. What a pity that this fire smelled so ill! But it was not a
moment for refinements; drawing their mantles over their eyes, shoving
their little slaveboys before them with their depilated and perfumed
arms, one after the other the elegant young gallants walked into the
fire with tranquil step, as if still dwelling in those days of peace
when they strolled through the Forum, gratified by the scandal caused by
their feminine adornments.

Sonnica gathered her tunic around her waist in order to run with greater
freedom, leaving disclosed the resplendent whiteness of her limbs.

"We are going to die, Euphobias," she said to the philosopher, who stood
absorbed in contemplation before this spectacle of destruction.

For the first time the philosopher failed to display his insolent and
ironic manner. He was grave and frowning; gazing at the people whom he
had so often ridiculed, beholding the heroism of their death.

"Die?" he exclaimed. "Must we die? Do you think so, Sonnica?"

"Yes; he who is not willing to be a slave must die. Get a sword and
follow me!"

"No, if I must die I will avoid the fatigue of running and the exertion
of striking blows. I will die placidly in the sweet indolence which ever
embellished my life."

Slowly, deliberately, he walked over to the fire, covered his face with
his patched and mended mantle, and laid himself in the flames as calm