subito sacratae vatis horrescunt comae, tripodes moventur, mugit adytis Religio, tremuntque lauri et ipse pallescit dies.
Behold, the hairs on the head of the sanctified prophetess stand erect, the tripods move, the voice of Religion rumbles from the inner shrines, the laurels quiver, and the day itself grows wan.
final_alignments\Phaedrus_Fables_Book5.json