They held towards him their knives. Hanno seized one of them, and dashed the point through the fleshy part of his shoulder. The screeching grew wilder as the priests saw this evidence of the power of their goddess. Surely Egbalus's prediction was being verified, since the man who, of all Tyre, next to the king, was noted for coolness and indifference to religion, had become a convert! Suddenly breaking through the throng, Hanno ran from street to street, followed by the priestly rabble. He shook the gates of several houses which would not open to him. Up the steep lanes he went, as if impelled by some fury. He dashed through the gate of the house of Ahimelek, which flew open at his touch. In a few moments he emerged. A woman's skirt, of richest texture, hung from his waist and covered the upper portion of his legs, which protruded bare and bleeding beneath. The blood still trickled from his shoulder and smeared the garment. The Galli gathered about him. He broke out into impassioned praise of Astarte, of Melkarth, of Moloch. In his ecstasy he shouted every phrase that described divinity in the street speech of Tyre. His celestial rage seemed inspired by the beams of Baal, which were changed to molten fire, and poured through his veins. His eloquence was prodigious. He clamored for more haste with the sacrifice. He declared himself willing to be the victim. Then, abandoning the wildness of gesticulation, he suddenly became rigid as a statue of porphyry, and his face as red with the blood-flush of excitement. He swayed an instant, then fell. The Galli caught him in their arms. They bore his stiffened form on their shoulders to the temple.
Even Egbalus was astounded at such a tribute to his priestly astuteness and power, and fairly croaked with delight as Hanno, returning to consciousness, prostrated himself at the high priest's feet. The addition to the priesthood of one who stood foremost among the Tyrians for social rank and for naval prowess was an event to be appreciated within the Temple of Baal.
While these scenes were being witnessed in the streets of the city, King Hiram, left alone by the departure of his friend Hanno, enacted within his own soul a tragedy scarcely less terrible than that he feared. From his impending fate he saw no way of escape. Die he must. He queried with himself, what would it signify if he resented, even fought against, this monstrous cruelty? What if he died by his own hand, or by the blows of his captors? This would only throw over his memory a damning disgrace in the estimate of the superstitious people. His name would be hissed with imprecations, and become a by-word for impiety towards the gods, and for selfish, cowardly indifference to the welfare of his country. Though he were right in his views of religion, he would not be understood. Posterity, except in remote ages, perhaps, would attribute to him, and to his shrinking from the altar, all the misfortunes that might come upon Tyre. Should he risk this? Did consistency require it of him? Should he not submit to the inevitable with outward grace, if not with the grace of a submissive spirit?