A flood of agony swept through the cells. There were no tears, just stunning disbelief. Shock tore the tongue of desperation from the hour of doom. Mothers drew their little ones tightly to themselves and stared wide-eyed at the gratings of their cells.

“Simply pass your children out the door, as every door is opened, one door at a time. Don’t try escape or you will die ahead of time, and your children will not die in mercy but be clubbed before your eyes.”

Praxis hated his decree. And he hated Sarkon. But more than all he hated Praxis. He wished the Singer really were alive and would come and strike him dead and save them from this hour.

The door to cell one was opened wide and two small forms were laid outside—dead. There were red marks on their necks. They had been quickly strangled by their mothers. The muffled sound of weeping blasphemed the inner-sanctum of the prison. The soul of Praxis now was gripped by high compassion that would fold an infant into gentle death before it laid a frightened child before such lonely dying as the executioners of Urbis could supply.

In cell two a mother without the strength to slay her son tried desperately to hold him tight, until a knight pulled the frightened child away and bludgeoned his mother with a mailed glove. He slammed the door as she fell backward screaming. The child beheld her mangled face with terror in his own. Something in the Builder died.

Praxis cried when cell three was opened. Three of the children who were placed outside were strangled. Two more reached in horror for the parents they would never see again.

Before the fourth cell opened, a low and plaintive chorus had begun, and song spilled into the courtyard, flooding every cranny of the prison with the chorus of their hymn of hope.

“He comes in power,

Rejoice the hour of jubilee is near.”

All afternoon the work went on. Most children laid outside were dead. The dead were placed on one cart, the living in a cage with high iron sides. Their wailing played counterpoint to the Singer’s song of hope. The crying and the joy filtered through the souls of guardsmen, knights and courtiers.

The inmates would have loved to have the Singer’s Meal, but they had no bread. So as they joined in singing once again the Star-Song, a radiance garnered light from torches and spread in brilliance through the cells. They sang in brighter light than any day.

XXI

We have heard that when the commandant presided at the execution of the first Jews, he faltered momentarily. A woman held up her infant to him, crying, “Please take my baby.” He turned as though to spare her son the rifle fire. And then he clicked his heels and turned away. The next six million souls were paperwork. Occasionally he left the office with a headache, but only because he feared the gas was running low or the cattle cars were late.