m, lest in
his malignant mood he should let the well overflow and consume them
with its waters of fire.

Wherefore, as this was the season of the sacrifice, the islanders
seeing the little chorister, how fair and beautiful he was, deemed he
would be a more acceptable offering to the spirit of evil than one of
their children, whom they were heart-sick of slaying. On this day,
therefore, they came at dawn, and with many gestures and much strange
speech led away the lad, and with gentle force kept the brethren apart
from him, though they suffered them to follow.

In a little while the child was clothed with flowers and leaves like
one of themselves, and in the midst of a great crowd singing a
barbarous strain, he was borne on a litter of boughs up the ascent of
the mountain. Many times they paused and rested in the heat, and the
day was far spent when they reached the foot of the lofty peak. There
they passed the night, but though the brethren strove to force their
way to the lad, they were restrained by the strength of the multitude,
and they knew that violence was useless. Again in the twilight before
dawn the islanders resumed the journey and came to the edge of the
craggy cup, in the depths of which bubbled the well of fire.

Silently they stood on the brink, looking towards the east; but the
Sea-farers, who now deemed only too well that their little brother was
about to be sacrificed to Moloch, cast themselves on their knees, and
with tears running down their faces, raised their hands in supplication
to heaven. But with a loud voice Serapion cried: "Fear not, dear son;
for the Lord can save thee from the mouth of the lion, and hear thee
from the horns of the unicorns." The little chorister answered: "Pray
for my soul, Father Serapion; for my body I have no fear, even though
they cast me into the pit."

In the streaming east the rays of light were springing ever more
brilliantly over the clear sea; two strong men held the lad and lifted
him from the ground; an aged islander--a priest, it seemed, of that
evil spirit--white-haired and crowned with flowers, watched the sky
with dull eyes; and as the sun came up with a rush of splendour, he
called aloud: "God of the mountain-fire, take this life we give thee,
and be good and friendly to us."

Then was little Ambrose the chorister swung twice to and fro, and
hurled far out into the rocky cup of the well of fire. And a wild cry
arose from the crowd: "Take this l