“Then, binding round their brows the mystic branch of bay, they rose, and in silence entered upon holy ground…… Fronting them rose the high altar, crowned, like the rest, with laurel, on which all must lay tribute who would enquire aught of Phoebus. Here the priests took of their offering and burnt it upon the slab. If the day were one of consultation, lots then were drawn for precedence, and he whom fortune favoured moved on, past the Omphalos, where Apollo had reposed in early days, past the tomb of Neoptolemus, past the image of Pallas, to the steps of the shrine itself. At the foot he left his train of servants, and mounted all alone, wondering at the marvels round, the open colonnades, the wondrous sculptures filling the pediments of the noble tympana, each commemorating the life and labours of a god.… And now the jubilant trumpets of the priests pealed out, with notes that rang round the valley, and up among the windings of the Hyampeian cliff. Awed into silence by the sound, he crossed the garlanded threshold: he sprinkled on his head the holy water from the fonts of gold, and entered the outer court. New statues, fresh fonts, craters, and goblets, the gift of many an Eastern king, met his eye: walla emblazoned with dark sayings rose about him as he crossed towards the inner adytum. Then the music grew more loud: the interest deepened: his heart beat faster.