Cleopatra by H. Rider Haggard

In silence we passed into the Shrine of Isis. It was dark and bare -- only the feeble light from the lamp gleamed faintly upon the sculptured walls, where, in a hundred effigies, the Holy Mother suckled the Holy Child.

The priest closed the doors and bolted them. "Once again," he said, "art thou ready, Harmachis?"