Resounding with triumphal noise, the procession marched or danced toward the palace. The dancers leapt and ran, drawing streaming ribbons in their wake which were fluttering with the yellows and oranges and reds of fire, the symbol of their empire, springing ahead and racing back toward the sad, plodding line of the captives and the proud, polished ranks of the guard.
They did not pass near my tower, but I could watch them well enough. Though I could not see their end from my exile, I knew it. By the way they walked, I think they knew it too. The luckiest of them might be slaves, but the priests would take the best specimens and accept the worst and unwanted. Into their temple the cream and the dregs went as a holocaust. All burned alike.
I could not save them. I could only pray, pray and plan. One day, if God would let me, I’d see the fire of their wicked temple snuffed out, and their dreadful city thrown into darkness.
