 Book 4, Chapter 7 of Last Days of Pompeii. Last Days of Pompeii by Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton. In which the reader learns the condition of Glaucus, friendship tested, enmity softened, love the same because the one loving is blind. The night was somewhat advanced, and the gay lounging places of the Pompeians were still crowded. You might observe in the countenances of the various idolars a more earnest expression than usual. They talked in large knots in groups as if they sought by numbers to divide the half-painful, half-pleasurable anxiety which belonged to the subject on which they conversed. It was the subject of life and death. A young man passed briskly by the graceful portico of the Temple of Fortune, so briskly indeed that he came with no slight force full against the rotund and comely form of that respectable citizen, Diomed, who was retiring homeward to his suburban villa. Halloa! groaned the merchant, recovering with some difficulty his equilibrium. Have you no eyes, or do you think I have no feeling? By Jupiter you have well nigh driven out the divine particle. Another such shock in my soul will be in Hades. Ah, Diomed, is it you? Forgive my inadvertence. I was absorbed in thinking of the reverses of life. Our poor friend Glaucus, eh? Who could have guessed it? Well, but tell me, Claudius, is he really to be tried by the Senate? Yes, they say the crime is of so extraordinary a nature that the Senate itself must judge it, and so the Lictors are to induct him formerly. Has he been accused publicly, then? To be sure, where have you been not to hear that? Why, I have only just returned from Neopolis, whether I went on business the very morning after his crime. So shocking, and at my house the same night that it happened. There is no doubt of his guilt, said Claudius, shrugging his shoulders. And as these crimes take precedence of all little undignified peccadillos, they will hasten to finish the sentence previous to the games. The games, good gods, replied Diomed with a slight shudder. Can they adjudge him to the beasts, so young, so rich? True, but then he is a Greek. Had he been a Roman, it would have been a thousand pities. These foreigners can be born with in their prosperity, but in adversity we must not forget that they are in reality slaves. However, we of the upper classes are always tender-hearted, and he would certainly get off tolerably well if he were left to us. For, between ourselves, what is a paltry priest of Isis? What Isis herself? But the common people are superstitious. They clamor for the blood of the sacrilegious one. It is dangerous not to give way to public opinion. And the blasphemer, the Christian, or Nazarene, or whatever else he be called? Oh, poor dog, if he will sacrifice to Cybele or Isis, he will be pardoned. If not, the tiger has him. At least so I suppose. But the trial will decide. We talk while the urns still empty. And the Greek may yet escape the deadly theta of his own alphabet. But enough of this gloomy subject. How is the fair Julia? Well, I fancy. Commend me to her. But hark! The door yonder creaks on its hinges. It is the house of the Predor. Who comes forth? By Pollux. It is the Egyptian. What can he want with our official friend? Some conference touching the murder doubtless, replied Diomed. But what was supposed to be the inducement to the crime? Glaucus was to have married the priest's sister. Yes, some say Apocides refused the alliance. It might have been a sudden quarrel. Glaucus was evidently drunk. Nay so much so as to have been quite insensible when taken up. And I hear is still delirious. Whether with wine, terror, remorse, the furies, or the back-and-alls, I cannot say. Poor fellow. He has good counsel. The best. Caius Polio, an eloquent fellow enough. Polio has been hiring all the poor gentlemen and well-born Spenthriffs of Pompeii to dress shabbily and sneak about swearing their friendship to Glaucus, who would not have spoken to them to be made emperor. I will do him justice. He was a gentleman in his choice acquaintance and trying to melt the stony citizens into pity. But it will not do. Isis is mightily popular just at this moment. And by the by I have some merchandise at Alexandria. Yes, Isis ought to be protected. True. So farewell, old gentleman. We shall meet soon. If not, we must have a friendly bed at the amphitheater. All my calculations are confounded by this cursed misfortune of Glaucus. He had bed on light in the gladiator. I must make up my tablet somewhere. Ballet. Leaving the less active diametre to regain his villa, Claudius strode on, humming a Greek air, and perfuming the night with the odorous that steamed from his snowy garments and flowing locks. If, thought he, Glaucus feed the lion, Julia will no longer have a person to love better than me. She will certainly do it on me, and so I suppose I must marry. By the gods the twelve lines begin to fail. Men look suspiciously at my hand when it rattles the dice. That infernal salus insinuates cheating, and if it be discovered that the ivory is clogged, why farewell to the merry supper in the perfumed billet. Claudius is undone. Better marry than, while I may, renounce gaming, and push my fortune, or rather the gentle Julius, at the imperial court. Thus muttering the schemes of his ambition, if by that high name the projects of Claudius may be called, the gamester found himself suddenly accosted. He turned and beheld the dark brow of our bosses. Hail, noble Claudius! Pardon my interruption, and inform me, I pray you, which is the house of Salus? It is but a few yards hence, wise our bosses, but what does Salus entertain tonight? I know not, answered the Egyptian. Nor am I perhaps one of those he would seek as a boon companion, but thou knowest that his house holds the person of Glaucus, the murderer. I, he good-hearted epicure, believes in the Greek's innocence. You remind me that he has become his surety, and therefore till the trial is responsible for his appearance. Well, Salus's house is better than a prison, especially that wretched hole in the forum. But for what can you seek Glaucus? Why, noble Claudius, if we could save him from execution it would be well. The condemnation of the rich is a blow upon society itself. I should like to confer with him, for I hear he has recovered his senses, and ascertain the motives of his crime. They may be so extenuating as to plead in his defense. You are benevolent, our bosses. Benevolence is the duty of one who aspires to wisdom, replied the Egyptian modestly. Which way lies Salus's mansion? I will show you, said Claudius, if you will suffer me to accompany you a few steps. But pray what has become of the poor girl who was to have wed the Athenian, the sister of the murdered priest. Alas, well, nigh insane! Sometimes she utters imprecations on the murderer, then suddenly stops short, then cries, but why curse, oh, my brother, Glaucus was not thy murderer? Never will I believe it. Then she begins again, and again stops short, and mutters awfully to herself. Yet if it were indeed he? Unfortunate Ioni! But it is well for her that those solemn cares to the dead which religion enjoins have hitherto greatly absorbed her attention from Glaucus and herself. And in the dimness of her senses, she scarcely seems aware that Glaucus is apprehended and on the eve of trial. When the funeral of rites due to Apocides are performed, her apprehension will return, and then I fear me much that her friends will be revolted by seeing her run to succor and aid the murderer of her brother. Such scandal should be prevented. I trust I have taken precautions to that effect. I am her lawful guardian and have just succeeded in obtaining permission to escort her after the funeral of Apocides to my own house. There, please the gods, she will be secure. You have done well, Sage of Arces, and now Yander is the house of Salus. The gods keep you. Yet hark you, Arbases! Why so gloomy and unsocial? Men say you can be gay. Why not let me initiate you into the pleasures of Pompeii? I flatter myself, no one knows them better. I thank you, noble Claudius, under your auspices I might venture, I think, to wear the filera, but at my age I should be an awkward pupil. Oh, never fear, I have made converts of fellows of seventy. The rich, too, are never old. You flatter me, at some future time, I will remind you of your promise. You may command Marcus Claudius at all times, and so valet. Now, said the Egyptian soliloquizing, I am not wantonly a man of blood. I would willingly save this Greek if, by confessing the crime, he will lose himself forever to Ioni, and forever free me from the chance of discovery. And I can save him by persuading Julia to own the filter, which will be held his excuse. But if he do not confess the crime, why Julia must be shamed from the confession, and he must die. Unless he prove my rival with the living, die, that he may be my proxy with the dead. Will he confess? Can he not be persuaded that in his delirium he struck the blow? To me it would give far greater safety than even his death. Hum, we must hazard the experiment. Sweeping along the narrow street, Arbauses now approached the house of Salus, when he beheld a dark form wrapped in a cloak and stretched at length across the threshold of the door. So still lay the figure, and so dim was its outline, that any other than Arbauses might have felt a superstitious fear, lest he beheld one of those grim lemurs who, above all other spots, hunted the threshold of the homes they formerly possessed. But not for Arbauses were such dreams. Rise, said he, touching the figure with his foot, thou obstructest the way. Ha, who art thou? cried the form in a sharp tone, and as she raced herself from the ground, the starlight fell full on the pale face and fixed but sightless eyes of Nidia the Thessalian. Who art thou? I know the burden of thy voice. Blind girl, what dost thou here at this late hour? Fie, is this seeming thy sex or years? Home girl, I know thee, said Nidia in a low voice. Thou art Arbauses the Egyptian. Then, as if inspired by some sudden impulse, she flung herself at his feet and, clasping his knees, exclaimed in a wild and passionate tone, Oh, dread and potent man, save him, save him. He is not guilty, it is I. He lies within, ill-dying, and I, I am the hateful cause, and they will not admit me to him. They spurn the blind girl from the hall. Oh, heal him, thou knowest some herb, some spell, some counter-charm, for it is a potion that hath wrought this frenzy. Hush, child, I know all. Thou forgettest that I accompanied Julia to the saga's home. Doubtless her hand administered the draft, your reputation demands thy silence. Reproach not thyself, what must be must. Meanwhile I seek the criminal, he may yet be saved, away. Thus saying, Arbauses extricated himself from the clasp of the despairing Thessalion and knocked loudly at the door. In a few moments the heavy bars were heard suddenly to yield, and the porter, half-opening the door, demanded who was there. Arbauses, important business to Salus relative to Glaucus, I come from the Praetor. The porter, half-yawning, half-growning, admitted the tall form of the Egyptian. Nidia sprang forward. How is he? she cried. Tell me, tell me. Home, mad girl, is it thou still? For shame, why they say he is sensible. The gods be praised, and you will not admit me? Ah, I beseech thee. Admit thee, no. A pretty salute I should prepare for these shoulders were I to admit such things as thou. Go home. The door closed, and Nidia, with a deep sigh, laid herself down once more on the cold stones, and wrapping her cloak around her face, resumed her weary vigil. Meanwhile Arbauses had already gained the triclinium, where Salus, with his favorite freedman, sat late at supper. What! Arbauses, and at this hour, accept this cup. Nay, gentle Salus, it is on business, not pleasure, that I venture to disturb thee. How doth thy charge? they say in the town that he has recovered since. Alas, and truly, replied the good-natured but thoughtless Salus, wiping the tear from his eyes. How shattered are his nerves and frame that I scarcely recognize the brilliant and gay carouser I was want to know. Yet, strange to say, he cannot account for the cause of the sudden frenzy that seized him. He retains but a dim consciousness of what hath passed, and, despite thy witness wise Egyptian, solemnly upholds his innocence of the death of Apocides. Salus, said Arbauses gravely, there is much in thy friend's case that merits a peculiar indulgence, and could we learn from his lips the confession and the cause of his crime much might be yet hoped from the mercy of the Senate. For the Senate thou knowest hath the power either to mitigate or to sharpen the law. Therefore it is that I have conferred with the highest authority in the city and obtained his permission to hold a private conference this night with the Athenian. Tomorrow thou knowest the trial comes on. Well, said Salus, thou wilt be worthy of thy eastern name and fame if thou canst learn odd from him, but thou mayest try, poor Glaucus, and he had such an excellent appetite, he eats nothing now. The benevolent Epicure was moved sensibly at this thought. He sighed and ordered his slaves to refill his cup. Night wanes, said the Egyptian, suffer me to see thy ward now. Salus nodded ascent and led the way to a small chamber guarded without by two dozing slaves. The door opened. At the request of our bosses, Salus withdrew. The Egyptian was alone with Glaucus. One of those tall and graceful candelabra common to that day, supporting a single lamb, burned beside the narrow bed. Its rays fell paley over the face of the Athenian, and our bosses was moved to see how sensibly that countenance had changed. The rich color was gone, the cheek was sunk, the lips were convulsed in pallet. Fierce had been the struggle between reason and madness, life and death. The youth, the strength of Glaucus, had conquered, but the freshness of blood and soul, the life of life, its glory and its zest, were gone forever. The Egyptian seated himself quietly beside the bed. Glaucus still lay mute and unconscious of his presence. At length, after a considerable pause, our bosses thus spoke. Glaucus, we have been enemies. I come to thee alone and in the dead of night, thy friend, perhaps thy savior. As the steed starts from the path of the tiger, Glaucus spring up breathless, alarmed panting at the abrupt voice, the sudden apparition of his foe. Their eyes met, and neither, for some moments, had power to withdraw his gaze. The flush went and came over the face of the Athenian, and the bronzed cheek of the Egyptian grew a shade more pale. At length, with an inward groan, Glaucus turned away, drew his hand across his brow, sunk back and muttered, Am I still dreaming? No, Glaucus, thou art awake. By this right hand in my father's head thou seest one who may save thy life. Hark! I know what thou hast done, but I know also its excuse of which thou thyself art ignorant. Thou hast committed murder, it is true. A sacrilegious murder. Frown not, start not. These eyes saw it. But I can save thee. I can prove how thou wert bereaved of sense, and made not a free thinking and free acting man. But in order to save thee, thou must confess thy crime. Sign but this paper, acknowledging thy hand in the death of Apocides, and thou shalt avoid the fatal earn. What words are these? Murder and Apocides! Did I not see him stretched on the ground, bleeding in a corpse? And wouldst thou persuade me that I did the deed? Man, thou liest away! Be not rash. Glaucus, be not hasty. The deed is proved. Come, come. Thou mayst well be excused for not recalling the act of thy delirium, and which thy sober senses would have shunned even to contemplate. But let me try to refresh thy exhausted and weary memory. Thou knowest thou wert walking with the priest, disputing about his sister. Thou knowest he was intolerant and half a Nazarene, and he sought to convert thee, and ye had hot words. And he calumniated thy mode of life, and swore he would not marry Ioni to thee. And then in thy wrath and thy frenzy, thou didst strike the sudden blow. Come, come. You can recollect this. Read this papyrus. It runs to that effect. Sign it, and thou art saved. Thou, Barbarian, give me the written lie that I may tear it. I, the murderer of Ioni's brother, I confess to have injured one hair of the head of him she loved. Let me rather perish a thousand times. Beware, said our bosses, in a low and hissing tone. There is but one choice, thy confession in thy signature, or the amphitheater and the lion's maw. As the Egyptian fixed his eyes upon the sufferer, he hailed with joy the signs of evident emotion that seized the latter at these words. A slight shudder passed over the Athenian's frame. His lip fell. An expression of sudden fear and wonder betrayed itself in his brow and eye. Great gods, he said in a low voice. What reverse is this? It seems but a little day since life laughed out from amidst roses. Ioni mine, youth, health, love, lavishing on me their treasures. And now pain, madness, shame, death. And for what? What have I done? Oh, am I mad still? Sign and be saved, said the soft, sweet voice of the Egyptian. Tempter, never! cried Glaucus in the reaction of rage. Thou knowest me not. Thou knowest not the haughty soul of an Athenian. The sudden face of death might appall me for a moment, but the fear is over. Dishonor appalls forever. Who will debase his name to save his life? Who exchanged clear thoughts for sullen days? Who will belie himself to shame and stand blackened in the eyes of love? If to earn a few years of polluted life there be so base a coward, dream not, dull barbarian of Egypt, to find him in one who has trod the same sod as Harmonius, and breathed the same air as Socrates. Go, leave me to live without self reproach, or to perish without fear. Bethink thee well, the lion's fangs, the hoots of the brutal mob, the vulgar gaze on thy dying agony and mutilated limbs, thy name degraded, thy corpse unburied. The shame now would devoid, clinging to thee for I and ever. Thou ravest, thou art the madman. Shame is not in the loss of another man's esteem. It is in the loss of our own. Wilt thou go? My eyes loathe the sight of thee. Hating ever, I despise thee now. I go, said our bosses, stung and exasperated, but not without some pitying admiration of his victim. I go, we meet twice again, once at the trial, once at the death. Farewell. The Egyptian rose slowly, gathered his robes about him, and left the chamber. He sought Salist for a moment, whose eyes began to reel with the vigils of the cup. He is still unconscious, or still obstinate. There is no hope for him. Say not so, replied Salist, but little resentment against the Athenian's accuser, for he possessed no great austerity of virtue and was rather moved by his friend's reverses than persuaded of his innocence. Say not so, my Egyptian, so good a drinker shall be saved if possible, back us against Isis. We shall see, said the Egyptian. Suddenly the bolts were again withdrawn, the door unclosed, Arbases was in the open street, and poor Nidia, once more, started from her long watch. Wilt thou save him? She cried, clasping her hands. Child, follow me home, I would speak to thee. It is for his sake I ask it. And thou wilt save him? No answer came forth to the thirsting ear of the blind girl. Arbases had already proceeded far up the street. She hesitated a moment, and then followed his steps in silence. I must secure this girl, said he amusingly, lest she give evidence of the filter, as to the vain Julia she will not betray herself. Chapter 8 A Classic Funeral While Arbases had been thus employed, sorrow and death were in the house of Ioni. It was the night preceding the mourn in which the solemn funeral rites were to be decreed to the remains of the murdered Apocides. The corpse had been removed from the Temple of Isis close of the nearest surviving relative, and Ioni had heard in the same breath the death of her brother and the accusation against her betrothed. That first violent anguish, which blunts the sense of all but itself and the forbearing silence of her slaves, had prevented her from learning minutely the circumstances attendant on the fate of her lover. His illness, his frenzy, and his approaching trial were unknown to her. She learned only the accusation against him, and at once indignantly rejected it. Nay, on hearing that Arbases was the accuser, she required no more to induce her firmly and solemnly to believe that the Egyptian himself was the criminal. But the vast and absorbing importance attached by the ancients to the performance of every ceremonial connected with the death of her relation had as yet confined her woe and her convictions to the Chamber of the deceased. Alas, it was not for her to perform that tender and touching office which obliged the nearest relative to endeavor to catch the last breath, the departing soul of the beloved one. But it was hers to close the straining eyes, the distorted lips, to watch by the consecrated clay. As fresh bathed and anointed, it lay in festive robes upon the ivory bed, just drew the couch with leaves and flowers, and to renew the solemn cypress branch at the threshold of the door. And in these sad offices, in lamentation and in prayer, I only forgot herself. It was among the loveliest customs of the ancients to bury the young at the morning twilight. For, as they strove to give the softest interpretation to death, so they poetically imagined that Aurora, who loved the young, had stolen them to her embrace. And though in the instance of the murdered priest, this fable could not appropriately cheat the fancy, the general custom was still preserved. The stars were fading one by one from the gray heavens, and night slowly receding before the approach of mourn, when a dark group stood motionless before Ioni's door. High and slender torches, made paler by the un-mallowed dawn, cast their light over various countenances, hushed for the moment in one solemn and intent expression. And now there arose a slow and dismal music, which accorded sadly with the right, and floated far along the desolate and breathless streets, while a chorus of female voices, the proficier so often cited by the Roman poets, accompanying the Tybesan and Mycian flute, woke the following strain, the funeral dirge, or the sad threshold where the cypress bow, supplants the rose that should adorn thy home, on the last pilgrimage on earth that now awaits thee, wanderer to coquetus, come. Darkly we woo, and weeping we invite, death is thy host, his banquet asks thy soul, thy garlands hang within the house of night, and the black stream alone shall fill thy bowl. No more for thee the laughter in the song, the jockened night, the glory of the day, the archived daughters at their labors long, the hell-bird swooping on its titan prey, the false aiolides upheaving slow, or the eternal hill, the eternal stone, the crowned Lydean in his parching woe, and green calorhose monster-headed sun. These shalt thou see dim shadowed through the dark, which makes the sky of Pluto's dreary shore, low where thou standst, pale gazing on the bark that waits our right to bear thee trembling oar. Come then, no more delay, the phantom pines amidst the unburied for his latest home, or the gray sky the torch impatient shines. Come mourner forth, the last one bids thee come. As the hymn died away the group parted in twain, and placed upon a couch spread with a purple pall, the corpse of Apocides was carried forth with the feet foremost. The designator, or marshal of the sober ceremonial, accompanied by his torch-bearers, clad in black, gave the signal, and the procession moved dreadly on. First went the musicians playing a slow march, the solemnity of the lower instruments broken by many a louder and wilder burst of the funeral trumpet. Next followed the hired mourners chanting their dirges to the dead, and the female voices were mingled with those of boys whose tender years made still more striking the contrast of life and death, the fresh leaf and the withered one. But the players, the buffoons, the archimimus, whose duty is to personate the dead, these, the customary attendants at ordinary funerals, were banished from a funeral attended with so many terrible associations. The priests of Isis came next in their snowy garments, barefooted, and supporting sheaves of corn, while before the corpse were carried the images of the deceased and his many Athenian forefathers. And behind the beer followed, amidst her women, the soul-surviving relative of the dead. Her head bare, her locks disheveled, her face paler than marble, but composed and still, save ever an anon as some tender thought, awakened by the music, fleshed upon the dark lethargy of woe, she covered that countenance with her hands and sobbed on scene. For hers were not the noisy sorrow, the shrill lament, the ungoverned gesture, which characterized those who honored less faithfully. In that age, as in all, the channel of deep grief flowed hushed and still. And so the procession swept on till it had traversed the streets, passed the city gate, and gained the place of tombs without the wall, which the traveler yet beholds. Raised in the form of an altar, of unpolished pine, amidst whose interstices were placed preparations of combustible matter, stood the funeral pyre, and around it drooped the dark and gloomy cypresses, so consecrated by song to the tomb. As soon as the beer was placed upon the pile, the attendants parting on either side, I only passed up to the couch, and stood before the unconscious clay for some moments motionless and silent. The features of the dead had been composed from the first agonized expression of violent death. Hushed forever the terror and the doubt, the contest of passion, the awe of religion, the struggle of the past and present, the hope and the horror of the future. Of all that ransacked and desolated the breast of that young aspirant to the holy of life, what trace was visible in the awful serenity of that impenetrable brow and unbreathing lip. The sister gazed, and not a sound was heard as if it's the crowd. There was something terrible yet softening also in the silence, and when it broke, it broke sudden and abrupt. It broke with a loud and passionate cry. The vent of long smothered despair. My brother, my brother! cried the poor orphan, falling upon the couch. Thou whom the worm on thy path feared not, what enemy couldst thou provoke? Oh, is it in truth come to this? Awake! Awake! We grow together! Are we thus torn asunder? Thou art not dead, thou sleepest! Awake! Awake! The sound of her piercing voice roused the sympathy of the mourners, and they broke into loud and rude lament. This startled, this recalled Ioni. She looked up hastily and confusedly, as if for the first time sensible of the presence of those around. Ah! she murmured with a shiver. We are not then alone. With that, after a brief pause, she rose, and her pale and beautiful countenance was again composed and rigid. With fond and trembling hands she unclosed the lids of the deceased. But when the doll glazed eye, no longer beaming with love and life, met hers, she shrieked aloud as if she had seen a specter. Once more recovering herself, she kissed again and again the lids, the lips, the brow, and with mechanic and unconscious hand, received from the high priest of her brother's temple the funeral torch. The sudden burst of music, the sudden song of the mourners, announced the birth of the sanctifying flame. Hymn to the wind. One, on thy couch of cloud reclined, wake, O soft and sacred wind! Soft and sacred will we name thee, whoso'er the sire that claim thee. Whether old ousters dusky child, or the loud son of Eurus wild, or his who o'er the darkling deeps from the bleak north in tempest sweeps, still shalt thou seem as dear to us as flowery crowned Zephyrus. When, through twilight's starry dew, trembling he hastes his nymph to woo. Two, lo, our silver censors swinging, perfumes o'er thy path are flinging, nare o'er Tempe's breathless valleys, nare o'er Cypria's sedarn alleys, o'er the rose-isle's moonlit sea, floated sweets more worthy thee. Lo, around our vases sending, myrrh and gnar'd with Cassia blending, paving air with odorous meat for thy silver-sandaled feet. Three, august and everlasting air, the source of all that breathe and be, from the mute clay before thee bare, the seeds it took from thee. Aspire, bright flame, aspire, wild wind, awake, awake, thine own o' solemn fire, o'er thine own retake. Four, it comes, it comes, lo, it sweeps, the wind we invoke the wild, and crackles and darts and leaps, the light on the holy pile. It rises, its wings interweave, with the flames, how they howl and heave. Toast, world to and fro, how the flame's serpents glow. Rushing higher and higher, on, on, fearful fire, thy giant limbs twined with the arms of the wind. Lo, the elements meet on the throne of death to reclaim their own. Five, swing, swing the censor round, tune the strings to a softer sound, from the chains of thy earthly toil, from the clasp of thy mortal coil, from the prison where clay confined thee, the hands of the flame unbind thee. O soul, thou art free, all free. As the winds in their ceaseless chase, when they rush o'er their airy sea, thou mayest speed through the realms of space, no fetter is forged for thee. Rejoice, o'er the sluggered tide, of the sticks thy bark can glide, and thy steps ever more shall rove, through the glades of the happy grove, where, far from the loathed cockatice, the loved and the lost invite us. Thou art slave to the earth no more. O soul, thou art freed, and we? Ah, when shall our toil be over? Ah, when shall we rest with thee? And now high and far into the donning skies broke the fragrant fire. It flushed luminously across the gloomy cypresses. It shot above the massive walls of the neighboring city, when the early fishermen started to behold the blaze reddening on the waves of the creeping sea. But Ioni sat down apart and alone, and leaning her face upon her hands, saw not the flame, nor heard the lamentation of the music. She felt only one sense of loneliness. She had not yet arrived to that hallowing sense of comfort when we know that we are not alone, that the dead are with us. The breeze rapidly aided the effect of the combustibles placed within the pile. By degrees the flame wavered, lowered, dimmed, and slowly by fits and unequal starts died away, emblem of life itself, where just before all was restlessness and flame now lay the dull and smoldering ashes. The last sparks were extinguished by the attendants, the embers were collected. Steeped in the rarest wine and the costliest odorous, the remains were placed in a silver urn, which was solemnly stored in one of the neighboring sepulchres beside the road, and they placed within it the vile full of tears and the small coin which poetry still consecrated to the grim boatman. And the sepulchre was covered with flowers and chaplets and incense kindled on the altar and the tomb hung round with many lamps. But the next day when the priest returned with fresh offerings to the tomb, he found that to the relics of heathen superstition some unknown hands had added a green palm branch. He suffered it to remain unknowing that it was the sepulchral emblem of Christianity. When the above ceremonies were over one of the profissier three times sprinkled the mourners from the purifying branch of Laurel uttering the last word, alesate, depart, and the rite was done. But first they paused to utter, weepingly and many times, the affecting farewell, salve aeternum, and as I only yet lingered they woke the parting strain. Salve aeternum, one. Farewell, O soul departed, farewell, O sacred urn, bereaved and broken-hearted to earth the mourner's turn. To the dim and dreary shore thou art gone our steps before. But thither the swift hours lead us and thou dost but a while precede us. Salve, salve. Loved urn and thou solemn cell mute ashes. Farewell, farewell, salve, salve. Two. Eleset, ereleset. O vainly would we part, thy tomb is the faithful heart. About ever more we bear thee, for who from the heart can tear thee? Vainly we sprinkle o'er us the drops of the cleansing stream, and vainly bright before us the lustral fire shall beam. For where is the charm expelling thy thought from its sacred dwelling? Our griefs are thy funeral feast and memory thy mourning priest. Salve, salve. Three. Eleset, ereleset. The spark from the hearth is gone wherever the air shall bear it. The elements take their own. The shadows receive thy spirit. It will soothe thee to feel our grief as thou glideest by the gloomy river. If love may in life be brief, in death it is fixed for ever. Salve, salve. In the hall which our feasts elume, the rose for an hour may bloom. But the cypress that decks the tomb, the cypress is green for ever. Salve, salve. End of Book 4 Chapter 8 Book 4 Chapter 9 of Last Days of Pompeii This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ben Wilford. Last Days of Pompeii by Edward G. Woolworth-Litton. Book 4 Chapter 9 Chapter 9 in which an adventure happens to Eon. While some stayed behind to share with the priests the funeral banquet, Eon and her handmaids took home their melancholy way. And now, the last duties to her brother performed, her mind awoke from its absorption, and she thought of her alliance and the dread charged against him. Not, as we have before said, attaching either a momentary belief to the unnatural accusation, but nursing the darkest suspicion against Arbusus. She felt that justice to her lover and to her murdered relative demanded her to seek the proctor and communicate her impression unsupported as it might be. Questioning her maidens who had hitherto kindly anxious, as I have said, to save her of the additional agony, refrained from informing her of the state of Glockus. She learned that he had been dangerously ill, that he was in custody under the roof of solace that the day of his trial was appointed. Afferting God, she exclaimed, and have I been so long forgetful of him? Have I seemed to shun him? Oh, let me hasten to do him justice. To show that I, the nearest relative of the dead, believe him innocent of the charge. Quick, quick, let us fly. Let me soothe. Ten, cheer him. And if they will not believe me, if they will not lead to my conviction, if they sentence him to exile or to death, let me share the sentence with him. Instinctively, she hastened her pace, confused and bewildered, scarce knowing whether she went, now designing first to seek the proctor and now to rush to the chamber of Glockus. She hurried on. She passed the gate of the city. She was in the long street leading up the town. The houses were open, but none were yet a stir in the streets. The life of the city was scarce awake. When low, she came suddenly upon a small, not a men standing beside a covered litter. A tall figure stepped from the midst of them, some sweet loud, to behold, Arbusus. Fair young, he said, gently, and appearing not to heed her alarm. My ward, my pupil, forgive me if I disturb thy pious sorrows. But the proctor solicitous of thy honor and anxious that thou mayest not rashly be implicated in the coming trial, knowing the strange embarrassment of thy state, seeking justice for thy brother, but dreading punishment to thy betroth, sympathizing too with thy unprotected and friendless condition, and deeming it harsh that thou shouldst be suffered to act unguided and mourn alone, as wisely and paternally confided thee to the care of thy lawful guardian. Behold the writing which entrusted thee to my charge. Dark Egyptian cried Eon, drawing herself proudly aside. Be gone! It is thou that hast slain my brother. Is it to thy care, thy hands yet reeking with his blood, that they will give the sister? Ha! Thou turnest pale, thy conscience smicely. Thou trimeth at the thunderbolt of the avenging god. Pass on and lead me to my woe. Thy sorrow unstrings thy reason, Eon, said Arbusus, attipping in vain his usual calmness of tone. I forgive thee. Thou would find me now, as ever, thy sureest friend. But the public streets are not the fitting place for us to confer. For me to console thee. Approach, slaves, come, my sweet charge, the litter awaits thee. The amazed and terrified attendants gathered around Eon and clung to her knees. Arbusus, said the eldest of the maidens, this is surely not the law. For nine days after the funeral is it not written that the relatives of the deceased shall not be molested in their homes or interrupted in their solitary grief? Woman returned Arbusus imperilously waving his hand to place the ward under the roof of her garden is not against the funeral laws. I tell thee, I have the fiat of the proctor. This delay is in decorous. Place her in the litter. So, saying, he threw his arm firmly around the streaking form of Eon, she drew back, gazed earnestly in his face, and then burst into historical laughter. Ha, ha, this is well, well, excellent garden, paternal law, ha, ha, and startled herself at the dread echo of that thrilled and madden laughter. She sunk as it died away, lifeless upon the ground. A minute more, and Arbusus had lifted her into the litter. The bears moved swiftly on, and the unfortunate Eon was soon born from the sight of her weeping handmaids. End of Book 4, Chapter 9 Recording by Ben Wilford of Jackson, Tennessee. Book 4, Chapter 10 of Last Days of Pompeii. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recording are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ben Wilford. Last Days of Pompeii by Edward G. Boward-Litton. Book 4, Chapter 10 Chapter 10, What Becomes of Nadia In the house of Arbusus, the Egyptian feels compassion for Glaucus. Compassion is often a very useless visitor to the guilty. It will be remembered that, at the command of Arbusus, Nadia followed the Egyptian to his home, and conversing there with her, he learned from the confession of her despair and remorse that her hand, and not Julius, had administered to Glaucus the fatal potion. At another time, the Egyptian might have conceived a philosophical interest in sounding the depths and origin of the strange and unassorting passion which, in blindness and in slavery, this singular girl had dared to cherish, but at present he spared no thought from himself. As, after her confession, the poor Nadia threw herself on her knees before him and besought him to restore the health and save the life of Glaucus. For in her youth and ignorance, she imagined the dark magician all powerful to affect both. Arbusus, with unheating ears, was noting only the new expediency of detainee Nadia, a prisoner until the trial and fate of Glaucus, were decided. For if, when he judged her merely the accomplice of Julius in obtaining the Filtra, he had felt it was dangerous to the full success of his vengeance to allow her to be at large, to appear perhaps as a witness, to avow the manner in which the sense of Glaucus had been darkened, and thus went indulgence to the crime of which he was accused. How much more was she likely to volunteer her testimony when she herself had administered the drought and inspired by love would be only anxious at any expensive shame to retrieve her heir and preserve her beloved. Besides, how unworthy of the rank and repute of Arbusus to be implicated in the disgrace of pandering to the passion of Julius and assisting in the unholy rites of the saga of Vesuvius, nothing less indeed than his desire to induce Glaucus to own the murder of Apachydus. As a policy evidently the best, both for his own permanent safety and his successful suit with the own, could ever have led him to contemplate the confession of Julius. As for Nadia, who was necessarily cut off by her blindness from much of the knowledge of active life, and who, a slave and a stranger, was naturally ignorant of the pearls of the Roman law, she thought rather of the illness and delirium of her Athenians than the crime of which she had vaguely heard him accused or the chances of the impending trial. Poor wretched as she was, whom none addressed, none cared for, what did she know of the senate and the senates, the hazard of the law, the ferocity of the people, the arena, and the lion's den. She was accustomed only to associate with the thought of Glaucus, who was prosperous and lofty. She could not imagine that any pearl, save from the madness of her love, could menace that sacred head. He seemed to her set apart for the blessing of the life. She only had disturbed the current of his felicity. She knew not, she dreamed not that the stream, once so bright, was dashing on to darkness and to death. It was therefore to restore the brain that she had marred, to save the life that she had endangered, that she implored the assistance of the great Egyptian. Daughter, said Arbusus, waking from his reverie, thou must rest here, it is not meat for thee to wander along the streets, and be spurned from the threshold by the rude feet of slaves. I have compassion on thy soft crime, I will do all to remedy it. Wait here patiently for some days, and Glaucus shall be restored. So saying, and without waiting for her reply, he hastened from the room, drew the bolt across the door, and consigned the care and wants of his prisoner to the slave who had the charge of that part of the mansion. Alone, then and musingly, he waited the morning light, and with it repaired, as we have seen, to possess himself for the person of his own. His primary object, with respect to the unfortunate Neapolitan, was that which he had really stated to Claudius this, prevent her interesting herself actively in the trial of Glaucus, and also to guard against her accusing him, which she would, doubtless, have done, of his former act of perfidy and violence towards her, his ward, denouncing his causes for vengeance against Glaucus, unveiling the hypocrisy of his character and casting any doubt upon his ferocity in the charge which he had made against the Athenian. Not till he had encountered her that morning, not until he had heard her loud initiations, was he aware that he had also another danger to apprehend in her suspicion of his crime. He hugged himself now at the thought that these ends were affected. That one, at once the object of his passion and his fear, was in his power. He believed more than ever the flattering promises of the stars, and when he sought in that chamber in the inmost recesses of his mysterious mansion she had consigned her. When he found her overpowered by blow upon blow and passing from fit to fit from violence to torpor, and all the alienations of historical disease, he thought more of the loveliness which no frenzy could distort than of the woe which she had brought upon her. In that sanguine vanity common to men who through life have been invariably successful, whether in fortune or love, he flattered himself that when Glaucus had perished, and when his name was solemnly blackened by the award of illegal judgment, his title to her love forever forfeited by condemnation to death for the murder of her own brother, her affection would be changed to horror, and that his tenderness and his passion assisted by all the arts with which he well knew how to dazzle women's imagination might elect him to that throne in her heart from which his rival would be so awfully expelled. This was his hope, but should it fail, his unholy and fervent passion whispered at the worst, now she is in my power. Yet, with all, he felt it uneasiness and apprehension which attended upon the chance of detection, even when the criminal is insensible to the voice of conscience that vexed her of the consequences of crime which is often mistaken for remorse at the crime itself. The buoyant area of Campania weighed heavily upon his breasts. He longed to hurry from a scene where danger might not sleep eternally with the dead, and, having it on, now in his possession, he secretly resolved as soon as he had witnessed the last agony of his rival to transport his wealth and her the costly of treasure of all to some distant shore. Yes, said he, striding to and fro his solitary chamber. Yes, the law that gave me the person of my ward gives me the possession of my bride. Far across the broad main where we sweep on our search after novel luxuries and inexperienced pleasures, chaired by my stars, supported by the omens of my soul, we will penetrate to those vast and glorious worlds which my wisdom tells me lie yet untracked in the recesses of the circling sea. There may this heart, possessed of love, be much more alive to ambition. There, amongst nations uncrushed by the Roman yoke and to whose ear the name of Rome has not yet been waffled, I may found an empower and transplant my ancestral creed renewing the ashes of the dead Theban rule, continuing in yet grander shores the dynasty of my crown fathers and waking in the noble heart of Eon the grateful consciousness that she shares the lot of one who, far from the age-rotteness of this slavish civilization restores the primal elements of greatness and unites in one mighty soul the attributes of the prophet and the king. From this exultant soliloquy Arbacus was awakened to attend the trial of the Athenian. The worn and pallid cheek of his victim touched him less than the firmness of his nerves and the dauntlessness of his brow for Arbacus was one who had little pity for what was unfortunate but a strong sympathy for what was bold. The congenialities that bind us to others ever assimilate to the qualities of our own nature, the hero weeps less at the reverses of his enemy than at the fortitude with which he bears him. All of us are human and Arbacus, criminal as he was, had his share of our common feelings and our mother clay. Had he but obtained from Glaucas the written confession of his crime, which would, better than even the judgment of others, have lost him with Eon and removed from Arbacus the chance of future detection, the Egyptian would have strained every nerve to save his rival. Even now his hatred was over, his desire of revenge was slack. He crushed his prey not in enmity but as an obstacle in his path. Yet was he not the less resolved, the less crafty and persevering in the course he pursued for the destruction of one whose doom was to become necessary to the attainment of his object. And while, with apparent reluctance and compassion, he gave against Glaucas the evidence which condemned him. He secretly and through the medium of the priesthood fomented that popular indignation which made an effectual obstacle to the pity of the Senate. He had sought Julia, he had detailed to her the confession of Nadia, he had easily therefore lulled any scruple of conscience which might have led her to extenuate the offense of Glaucas by avowing her share in his frenzy. And the more readily for her vain heart had loved the fame and the prosperity of Glaucas, not Glaucas himself, she felt no affection for a disgraced man. Nay, she almost rejoiced in the grace that humbled the hated Eon. If Glaucas could not be her slave, neither could he be the adorer of her rival. This was sufficient consolation for any regret at his fate. Volatile and fickle, she began again to be moved by the sudden and earnest suit of Claudius and was not willing to hazard the loss of an alliance with that base but high-born noble by any public exposure of her past weakness and a modest passion for another. All things then smiled upon Arbusus, all things frowned upon the Athenian. End of Book 4, Chapter 10 Recording by Ben Wilford of Jackson, Tennessee Book 4, Chapter 11 of Last Days Upon Pay This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information on how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Ben Wilford Last Days Upon Pay by Edward G. Bowert Lytton Book 4, Chapter 11 Chapter 11 Naughty Affects the Sorceress When the Thessalonian found that Arbusus returned to her no more, when she was left hour after hour to all the torture of that miserable suspense which was rendered by blindness, doubly intolerable, she began with outstretched arms to fail around her prison for some channel of escape. And finding the only entrance secure, she called aloud, and with the venomous of a temper naturally violent, and now sharpened by impatient agony. Ho, girl! said the slave in attendance, opening the door. Are thou bit by a scorpion? Or thinkest thou that we must hear, and only to be preserved like the infant Jupiter by a hullabaloo? Where is thy master, and wherefore am I caged here? I won't err in liberty, let me go forth. Alas, little one, hath thou not seen enough of Arbusus to know that his will is imperial? He hath ordered thee to be caged and caged thou art, and I am thy keeper. Thou canst not have err in liberty, but thou must have what are much better things, food and wine. Ploff Jupiter cried the girl, ringing her hands, and why am I thus imprisoned? What can the great Arbusus want was so poor a thing as I, that I know not, unless it be to attend on thy new mistress, who has been brought hither this day? What? He own here? Yes, poor lady, she liked it little, I fear, yet, by the temple of Castor, Arbusus is a gallant man to the women. Thy lady is his ward, thou knowest. Will thou take me to her? She is ill, frantic with rage and spite, besides I have no orders to do so, and I never think for myself. When Arbusus made me slave of these chambers, he said I have but one lesson to give thee. While thou service me, thou must have neither ears, eyes, nor thought, thou must be but one quality, obedience. But what harm is there in seeing I own? That I know not, but if thou wantest a companion I am willing to talk to thee, little one, for I am solitary enough in my dull cubiculum. And, by the way, thou art Thessaline, knowest thou not some cunning amusement of knife and shears, some pretty trick of telling as most of thy race do in order to pass the time to a slave hold thy peace, or if thou will speak what has thou heard of the state of Glaucus, why, my master has gone to the Athenian trial, Glaucus will smart for it. For what? The murder of the priest Episcides. Ha! said Nadia, pressing her hand to her forehead. Something of this I have indeed heard, but understand not. Yet who will dare to dust a hair of his head? That will the lion, I fear. Averting gods, what wickedness does thou utter? Why, only that, if he be found guilty, the lion, or maybe the tiger, will be his executioner. Nadia leaped up, as if an arrow had entered her heart. She uttered a piercing scream. Then, falling before the feet of the slave, she cried in a tone that melted even his rude heart. Ha! tell me thou, Justice. Thou utterest not the truth, speak, speak. Why, by my faith, blind girl, I know nothing of the law. It may not be so bad, as I say, but Arbusis is his accuser, and the people desire a victim for their arena. Cheer thee, but what has the fate of the Athenian to do with thine? No matter, no matter. He has been kind to me. Thou knowest not, then, what they will do. Arbusis is his accuser, O fate. The people, the people, ah, they can look upon his face who will be cruel to the Athenian, yet was not love itself cruel to him? So saying, her head drooped upon her bosom, she sunk into silence, scalding tears flow down her cheeks, and all the kindly efforts of the slave were unable either to console her or distract the absorption of her delivery. When his household careless obliged a minister to leave her room, Nadia began to recollect her thoughts. Arbusis was the accuser of Glaucus. Arbusis had imprisoned her here. Was not that a proof that her liberty might be serviceable to Glaucus? Yes, she was evidently invigled into some snare. She was contributing to the destruction of her beloved. Oh, how she panted for release. Fortunately all sense of pain became merged in the desire of escape. As she began to revolve the possibility of deliverance, she grew calm and thoughtful. She possessed much of the craft of her sex, and it had been increased in her breast by her early servitude. What slave was ever destitute of cunning? She resolved to practice upon her keeper, and calling subtly to mind his superstitious query as to her Thessalonian art, she hoped by work out some method of release. These doubts occupied her mind during the rest of the day and the long hours of night, and, accordingly, when Socia visited her the following morning, she hastened to divert his gorility into that channel in which it had before evinced a natural disposition to flow. She was aware, however, that her only chance of escape was at night, and, accordingly, she was obliged, with a bitter pang at the delay, to defer then her purposed attempt. The night, said she, is the sole time in which we can well decipher the decrees of fate. Then is Thelma seek me, but what desire Thelma to learn? By Pollux I should like to know as much as my master, but that is not to be expected. Let me know at least whether I shall save enough to purchase my freedom or whether this Egyptian will give it me for nothing. He does such generous things sometimes. Next, supposing that be true, shall I possess myself of that snug tabernia among the Myropolia, which I have long had in my eye, to the gentile trade that of a perfumer and suits a retired slave who has something of a gentleman about him? Ah, so you would have precise answers to those questions. There are various ways of satisfying you. There is a litho mentia, or speaking stone, which answers your prayer with an infant's voice, but then we have not that precious stone with us, costly it is and rare. Then there is the gastro mentia, whereby the demon casts pale and deadly images upon the water prophetic of the future, but this art requires also glasses of a peculiar fashion to contain the consecrated liquid which we have not. I think therefore that the simplest method of satisfying your desire would be by the magic of air. I trust it, Socia,沉lessly, that there is nothing very frightful in the operation. I have no love for apparitions. Fear not, thouest will see nothing thou wilt only hear by the bubbling of water whether or not thy suit prospers. First, then, be sure from the rising of the evening star that thou leave us to garden gate somewhat open, so that the demon may feel himself invited to enter therein and place fruits and water near the gate as a sign of hospitality. Then, three hours after twilight, come here with a bowl of the coldest and purest water, and thou shall learn all, according to the Thessaline lore my mother taught me. But forget not the garden gate all rest upon that. It must be open when you come, and for three hours previously. Trust me, reply the unsuspecting Socia, I know what a gentleman's feeling are when a door is shut in his face, as the cook shop's has been in mind many a day, and I know also that a person of respectability as a demon, of course, is cannot but be pleased on the other hand with any little mark of courteous hospitality. Meanwhile, pretty one, here is a morning's meal. But what of the trial? Oh, the lawyers are still at it. Talk, talk. It will last over all tomorrow. Tomorrow? You are sure of that? So I hear. Any on? By Pachus. She must be totally well, for she was strong enough to make my master's stamped by his lip this morning. I saw him quit her apartment with a brow like a thunderstorm. Lodged she near this? No. In the upper apartments. But I must not stay prading here longer. Vale. End of Book 4, Chapter 11 Recording by Ben Wilford of Jackson, Tennessee. Book 4, Chapter 12 of Last Days Upon Pay This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Ben Wilford Last Days Upon Pay By Edward G. Bulworth-Litton Book 4, Chapter 12 Chapter 12 A Wasp Vincers Into the Spider's Web The second night of the trial had set in, and it was nearly the time in which Socia was to brave the dread unknown, when they're entered as that very garden gate which the slave had left the jar, not, indeed, one of the mysterious parts of earth or air, but the heavy and most human form of Calenus the priest of Isis. He scarcely noted the humble offerings of indifferent fruit and still more indifferent wine, which the pious Socia had deemed good enough for the invisible stranger they were intended to allure. Some tribute thought he to the garden god. By my father's head if this deity ship were never better served, he would do well to give up the godly profession. Ah, were it not for us priests, the gods would have a sad time of it, and now for Arbysys. I am treading a quicksand, but it ought to cover a mine. I have the Egyptian's life and my power. What will he value it at? As he thus soliloquied, he crossed through the open court into the Prestile where a few lamps here and there broke upon the empire of the Starlight Knight, and issuing from one of the chambers that bordered the palace, suddenly encountered Arbysys. Ho, Calenus, sick as thou me, said the Egyptian, and there was a little embarrassment in his voice. Yes, wise Arbysys, I trust my visit is not unseasonable. Nay, it was but this instant that my freed man Calius sneezed thrice on my right hand, I knew therefore some good fortune was in store for me, and lo, the gods have sent me Calenus. Shall we within to your chamber, Arbysys? As you will, but the night is clear and balmy. I have some remains of languor yet lingering on me from my recent illness, there refreshes me. Let us walk in the garden. We are equally alone there. With all my heart, answered the priest, and the two friends passed slowly to one of the many terraces which, bordered by marble vases and sleeping flowers, intersected the garden. It is a lovely night, said Arbysys, blue and beautiful as that on which twenty years ago the shores of Italy first broke upon my view. My Calenus, age creeps upon us. Let us, at least, feel that we have lived. Thou, at least, may us irrigate that most, said Calenus. Beating about, as it were, for an opportunity to communicate the secret which weighed upon him, and feeling his usual Arbysys still more impressively that night, from the quiet and friendly tone of dignified condescension, which the Egyptian assumed. Thou, at least, may us irrigate that most. Thou has had countless wealth, a frame on whose close woven fibers, disease can find no space to enter. Prosperous love, inexhaustible pleasure, and even, at this hour, triumphant revenge. Thou eluded us to the Athenian. I, tomorrow son, the fit of his death will go forth. The Senate does not relent. But Thou mistakeeth, his death gives me no other gratification than it releases me from a rival in the affections of his own. I entertain no other sentiment of animosity against that unfortunate homicide. Homicide, repeated Calenus, slowly in meaningly, and halting as he spoke, he fixed his eyes upon Arbysys, the stars shone pale and steadily on the proud face of their prophet. But they betrayed their no change. The eyes of Calenus fell disappointed and abashed. He continued rapidly. Homicide, it is well to charge him with that crime. But Thou, of all men, knowest that he is innocent, explain thyself, said Arbysys. Coldly, for he had prepared himself for the hint his secret fears had foretold. Arbysys, answered Calenus, sinking his voice into a whisper, I was in the sacred grove sheltered by the chapel in the surrounding foliage. I overheard. I marked the hole. I saw thy weapon pierced the heart of Aposites. I blame not the deed. It destroyed a foe in an apostate. Thou saweth the hole, said Arbysys, dryly, so I imagined Thou worked alone. Alone returned Calenus, surprised at the Egyptian Countess. And wherefore it worked Thou hid behind the chapel at that hour? Because I had learned the conversion Aposites to the Christian faith, because I knew that on that spot he was to meet the fierce Olympus. Because they were to meet there to discuss plans for unveiling the sacred mysteries of our goddess to the people. And I was there to detect in order to defeat them. Has Thou told living ear what Thou didest witness? Oh, my master, the secret is locked in thy servant's breast. What? Even like Kinsman Berbo guesses it not. Come the truth. By the gods. Hush! We know each other. What are the gods to us? By the fear of thy vengeance then, no. And why has Thou hitherto concealed from me this secret? Why has Thou waited till the eve of the Athenian's condemnation, before Thou has told me that Arbyses is a murderer? And have carried so long why revealest Thou now that knowledge? Because because, stammered Calenus, coloring and in confusion, because, interrupted Arbyses with a gentle smile, and tapping the priests on the shoulder with a kindly and familiar gesture. Because, my Calenus, see now I will read in thy heart and explain its motives. Because Thou didest wish thoroughly to commit and entangle me in the trial so that I might have no loop hold of escape. That I might stand firmly pledged to perjury and to malice, as well as to homicide. That having myself wedded the appetite of the populace to blood, no wealth no power could prevent my becoming their victim. And Thou tellest me thy secret now ere the trial be over in the innocent condemned to show what a desperate web of villainry thy word tomorrow could destroy. To enhance in this, the ninth hour, the price of thy forbearance to show that my own arts in arousing the popular wrath would, at thy witness, recall upon myself. And that, if not for Gluckus, for me would gape the jaws of the lion. Is it not so? Arbyses replied Calenus, losing all the vulgar audacity of his natural character. Fairly that art a magician Thou riddeth the heart as it were a scroll. It is my vocation, answered the Egyptian, laughing gently. Well, then forbear, and when all is over, I will make thee rich. Pardon me, said the priest, as the quick suggestion of that avarice, which was his master passion, bade him trust no future chance of generosity. Pardon me, Thou saidest right. We know each other. If Thou have me silent, Thou must pay something in advance, as an offer to Harpocrates. If the rose, sweet emblem of discretion, is to take root firmly, water her this night with a stream of gold. Witty and poetical, answered Arbyses, still in that bland voice which lulled and encouraged, when it ought to have alarmed and checked his gripping comrade. Will Thou not wait the moral? Why this delay? To my testimony, without shame for not having given it air the innocent man suffered, Thou wilt forget my claim, and indeed, Thy present hesitation is a bad omen of Thy future gratitude. Well, then, Calenus, what would Thou have me pay thee? Thy life is very precious and Thy wealth is very great. Returning the priest's grinning, wittier and more witty, but speak out, what shall be him? Arbyses, I have heard that in Thy secret treasury below, beneath those rude, usken arches which prop Thy stately halls, Thou has piles of gold, of vases, and of jewels, which might rival the receptacles of the wealth of the deified Nero. Thou mayest easily spare out of those piles enough to make Calenus among the richest priests to Pompey, and yet not miss the loss. Come, Calenus, winningly, and with a frank and generous error, Thou art an old friend, and has been a faithful servant. Thou canst have no wish to take away my life, nor I a desire to extend Thy reward. Thou shall descend with me to that treasury Thou refers to, Thou shall feast Thy eyes with a blaze of uncounted gold and the sparkle of priceless gems, and Thou shalt for Thy own reward bear away with thee this night as Thou canst conceal beneath Thy robes. Nay, when Thou has once seen what Thy friend possesses, Thou wilt learn how foolish it would be to injure one who has so much to bestow, when Glocus is no more, Thou shall pay the treasury another visit. Speak Thou, frankly, and as a friend O, greatest, best of men, cried Calenus, almost weeping with joy. Can Thou thus forgive my wondrous doubts of Thy justice, Thy generosity? Hush! One other turn, and we will descend to the Oskanarchists. End of Book 4, Chapter 12, Recording by Ben Wilford of Jackson, Tennessee. Book 4, Chapter 13 of Last Days of Pompeii. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ben Wilford. Last Days of Pompeii by Edward G. Boyward-Litton. Book 4, Chapter 13 Chapter 13 The slave consels to Orgel, they who blind themselves in the blind may fool, two new prisoners made in one night. Impatiently Nadia awaited the arrival of the no less anxious fortifying his courage by plentiful potations of a better liquor than that provided for the demon, the credulous spinestrench stole into the blind girl's chamber. Well, Sotia, are thou prepared? Has thou the bowl of pure water? Verily, yes, but I tremble a little. You are sure I shall not see the demon? I have heard that these gentlemen are by no means of a handsome person or a civil demeanor. They are assured, and has thou left the garden gate gently open? Yes, and placed some beautiful nuts and apples on a little table close by. That's well, and the gate is open now, so that the demon may pass through it? Surely it is. Well, then, open this door. There, leave it just ajar, and now, Sotia, give me the lamp. What? You will not extinguish it? No, but I must breathe my spell over its rays. There is a spirit in fire. Seat thyself. The slave obeyed, and Nadia, after bending for some moment, silently over the lamp, rose, and in a low voice chanted the following rude. In vocation to the spectra of the air, loved alike by air and water, I must be Thessalyia's daughter. To us, Olympian hearts are given, bells that draw from heaven, all that Egypt's learning wrought, all that Persia's Magian taught. One from song, or rung from flowers, or whispered low by fiend, are ours. Spectra of the fearless air hear the blind Thessalyia's prayer, but erics those art that shed dews of life when life was fled, by lone Ithaca's wise king, who could wake the crystal spring to the voice by the lost urtises, summoned from the shadowy throng as the muse song's magic song, by the Couchian's awful charm, when fair hair Jason lift her arm. Spectra of the airy halls, one who owns the duty calls. Breathe alone the brimming bowl, and instruct the fearful soul in the shadowy things that lie, dark and dim, futurity, come, while demon of the air answer to thy vultury's prayer, come, O come. And no god on heaven or earth nor the papians, queen of mirth, not the vivid lord of light, nor the triple maid of night, nor the thunderer's self shall be, blessed and honored, more than thee, come, O come. The Spectra is certainly coming, says Socia. I feel him running along my hair. Place thy bowl of water on the ground. Now, then me thy napkin, and let me fold upon thy face and eyes. A. That's always the custom with these charms. Not so tight, though. Gently, gently. There. Thou can't not see. C. By Jupiter? No. Nothing but darkness. Address, then, to the Spectra, whatever question thou wouldst ask him, in a low-whispered voice, three times. If thy question is answered in the affirmative, affirm it and bubble before the demon breathes upon it. If in the negative, the water will be quite silent. But you will not play any trick with the water, eh? Let me place the bowl under thy feet. So. Now, that will proceed that I cannot touch it without thy knowledge. Very fair. Now, then, O Bacchus, befriend me. Thou knowest that I have always loved thee better than all and I will dedicate to thee that silver cup I stole last year from the burly carp-tor butler, if thou wilt but befriend me with this water-loving demon. And thou, O spirit, listen and hear me. Shall I be enabled to purchase my freedom next year? Thou knowest for as thou livest in the air the birds have doubtless acquainted thee with every secret of this house. Thou knowest that I have filched and pilfered that I safely could lay finger-aphone for the last three years and I yet want two thousand cestresses of the full sum. Shall I be able, O good spirit, to make up the deficiency in the course of this year? Beak. Ha! Does the water bubble? No. All this is stilled as a tune. Well, then, if not this year in two years? Ah! I hear something. The demon is crashing at the door. He'll be here presently in two years, my good fellow. Come now. Two. That's a very reasonable time. What? Dumb still? Two years and a half? Three? Four? Ill-fortune to you, friend demon. You are not a lady. That's clear, or you would not keep silence so long. Five? Six? Sixty years? And may Pluto sees you. I'll ask no more. And Solcia, in a rage, kicked down the water over his legs. He then, after much fumbling and more cursing, managed to extricate his head from the napkin in which it was completely folded. Stared round and discovered that he was in the dark. What? Ho! Nadia, the lamp is gone. Ah, traitorous, and thou art gone, too. But I'll ask no more. The slave groped his way to the door. It was bolted from without. He was a prisoner instead of Nadia. What could he do? He did not dare to knock loud. To call out, these arbiters should overhear him and discover how he had been duped, and Nadia, meanwhile, had probably already gained the garden gate and was fast on her escape. But, thought he, she will go into the city. Tomorrow, at dawn, when the slaves are at work in the press-style, I can make myself heard. Then I can go forth and seek her. I shall be sure to find and bring her back. Before the arbiters know the word of the matter, ah, that's the best plan. Little traitorous, my fingers itch at thee. And to leave only a bowl of water, too, had it been wine, it would have been some comfort. While he had been trapped, was lamenting his fate and revolving his scheme to repossess himself of Nadia, the blind girl, with that singular precision and dexterous rapidity of motion which, we have before observed, was peculiar to her, had passed lightly along the press-style, threaded the opposite passage that led into the garden, and with a beating heart, was about to proceed towards the gate when she suddenly heard the sound of approaching voice of Arbysys himself. She paused for a moment in doubt and terror. Then suddenly it flashed across her recollection that there was another passage which was little used except for the admission of the fair partakers of the Egyptian secret revels, of which wound along the basement of that massive fabric towards the door, which also communicated with the garden. By good fortune it might be open. At that thought she hastily retraced to send in the narrow stairs at the right and was soon into the entrance of the passage. Alas, the door at the entrance was closed and secured while she was yet assuring herself that it was indeed locked. She heard behind her the voice of Kalinas, in a moment after that of Arbysys in a low reply. She could not stay there. They were probably passing through that very door. She sprang onward and felt herself in unknown ground. The air grew damp and chill. This reassured her. She thought she might be among the sellers of the luxurious mansion, or at least in some rude spot not likely to be visited by its haughty lord. When again her quick ear caught steps in the sound of voices. Own, own she heard, extending her arms, which now frequently encountered pillars of thick and massive form. With attack, double in acuteness by her fear, she escaped these pearls and continued her way, the air growing more and more damp as she proceeded. Yet, still, as she ever in a non-pause for breath, she heard the advancing steps in an indistinct murmur of voices. At length she was abruptly stopped by a wall that seemed the limit of her path. Was there no spot in which she could hide? No apertures, no cavity? There was none. She stopped and rung her hands in despair. Then again, nervous as the voices neared upon her, she hurried on by the side of the wall, and coming suddenly against one of the sharp buttresses that here and there jutted boldly forth, she fell to the ground. Though much bruised, her senses did not leave her. She uttered no cry, nay, she hailed the accident that had led her to something like a screen, and creeping close up to the angle formed by the buttress, so that on one side she was sheltered from view. She gathered her slight, a small form into a smallest compass and breathlessly awaited her fate. Meanwhile, arbises and the priests were taking their way to that secret chamber whose doors were so vaulted by the Egyptians. They were in a vast subterranean atrium or hall. The low roof was supported by short, thick pillars of an architecture far remote from the Grecian graces of that luxuriant period. The hill and pale lamp, which arbises bore, shed but an imperfect ray over the bare and rugged walls in which the huge stones without cement were fitted curiously and uncouthly into each other. The disturbed reptiles glared dearly on the intruders and then crept into the shadow of the walls, calling the shivered as he looked around and breathed a damp unwholesome air. Yet, said arbises with a smile, perceiving his shutter, it is these rude bones that furnish the luxuries of the hall above. They are like the laborers of the world who despise their ruggedness, yet they feed the very pride that disdains them. And wither it goes yon dim gallery to the left, as Calenus, in this depth of gloom it seemed of that limit as if winding into Hades. On the contrary, it does but conduct to the upper rooms, answered arbises carelessly. It is to the right that we steered to the corn. The hall, like many in the more inhabitable regions of Pompeii, branched off at the extremities into two wings or passages, the length of which, not really great, was to the eye considerably exaggerated by the sudden gloom against which the lamp so faintly struggled. To the right of these allay, the two comrades now directed their steps. The gay Glocus would be lodged tomorrow in apartments not much drier and far less spacious than this, Calenus as they passed by the very spot where, completely wrapped in the shadow of the broad projecting buttress cowered to Thessalian. Aye, but then he will have dry room and ample enough in the arena on the following day, and to thank continued arbises slowly and very deliberately, to thank that a word of thine could save him, and consign arbises to his doom. That word shall never be spoken, said Calenus. Right, my Calenus, it shall never. Returned arbises familiarly leaning his arm on the priest's shoulder, and now, halt, we are at the door. The light trembled against a small door deep set in the wall, and guarded strongly by the many placed in bindings of the iron that intersected the rough and dark wood. From his girdle arbises now drew a small ring holding three or four short but strong keys. Oh, how be the gripping heart of Calenus as he heard the rusty war's growl as if resenting the emission to the treasures they guarded. Enter, my friends, said arbises, while I hold the lamp on high that thou mayest glut thine eyes on the yellow heap. The impatient Calenus did not wait to be twice invited. He hastened towards the aperture. Scarce as he crossed the threshold then the strong hand of arbises plunged him forwards. The word shall never be spoken, said the Egyptian, with a loud, exuberant laugh and closed the door upon the priest. Calenus had been precipitated down several steps, but not feeling at the moment the pain of his fall he sprung up again to the door, and beating at it fiercely with his clenched fist he cried aloud in what seemed more a beast's howl than a human voice. So keen was Agony in despair. Oh, release me, release me! I will ask, no gold! The words but imperfectly penetrated the massive door and arbises again laughed. Then, stamping his foot violently, rejoined, perhaps to give vent to his long stifled passions, all the gold of Dalmedia, cried he, will not by thee a crust of bread. Star, rich, thy dying groans will never awake even the echo of these vast halls, nor will the air ever reveal, as thou knowest, in thy desperate famine thy flesh from thy bones, that so perishes the man who threatened and could have undone arbises. Farewell. Oh, pity! Mercy! Inhuman villain! Was it for this? The rest of the sentence was lost to the ear of arbises as he passed backward along the dim hall. And plump and bloated lay unmoving before his path. The rays of the lamp fell upon his unshaped hiddenness and red upward eye. Arbises turned aside that he might not harm it. Thou art loathsome and obscene, he muttered, but thou cannot injure me. Therefore thou art safe in my path. The cries of Calenus dulled and choked by the barrier that confined him, yet faintly reached the ear of the ghost and listened intently. This is unfortunate, thought he, for I cannot say or tell that voice is dumb forever. My stores and treasures lie, not in Yon Dungeon, it is true, but in the opposite wing. My slaves, as they move them, must not hear his voice. But what fear of that? In three days, if he still survive his accents by my father's beard must be weak enough, then no, they could not pierce even through this team. By Isis it is cold, and long for a deep drop of the spice for learning. With that, the remorseless Egyptian drew his gown closer around him and resolved the upper air. End of Book 4, Chapter 13, Recording by Ben Wilford of Jackson, Tennessee. Book 4, Chapter 14 of Last Days of Pompeii. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ben Wilford. Last Days of Pompeii by Edward G. Woolworth-Litton Book 4, Chapter 14, Chapter 14, Nadia Acosta-Kalinas. What words of Tyra, yet of hope, had Nadia overheard? The next day Glocus was to be condemned, yet there lived one who could save him, and a judge arbises to his doom, and that one breathed within a few steps of her hiding place. She called his cries and shrieks, his implications, his prayers, though they fell choked and muffled on her ear. He was imprisoned, but she knew the secret of his cell. Could she but escape? Could she but seek the preter who might yet in time be to light, and preserve the Athenian? Her emotions almost stifled her. Her brain reeled. She felt her sense give way, but by a violent effort she mastered herself, and after listening intently for several minutes, since she was convinced that arbises had left the space to solitude in herself, she crept on as her ear guided her to the very door that had closed upon Kalinas. Here she more distinctly caught his accents of terror and despair. Thrice she attempted to speak, and Thrice her voice failed to penetrate the folds of the heavy door. At length finding the lock, she applied her lips to its small aperture, and the prisoner distinctly heard a soft tone breathe his name. His blood curdled, his hair stood on end. That awful solitude, what mysterious and preternatural being could penetrate. Who there he cried in new alarm? What spectra, what dread Larva calls upon the lost Kalinas? Priest, replied the Thessalian, unknown to arbises I have been by the permission of the gods, a witness to this perfidy. If I myself can escape from these walls, I may save thee, but let thy voice reach my ear through this narrow passage and answer what I ask. Ah, blessed spirit, said this priest, exultingly and obeying the suggestion of Nadia. Save me, and I will sell the very cups on the altar to pay thy kindness. I won't not thy gold, I won't thy secret. Did I hear a right? Canstal say the Athenian glaucus from the charge against his life. I can, I can! Therefore may the furious blast of Egyptian has arbises snared me thus and left me to starve and rot. They accused the Athenian of murder. Canstal disproved the accusation, only free me, and the proudest head of Pompey is not more safe than his. I saw the deed done. I saw arbises strike to blow. I can convict the true murder and acquit the innocent man, but if I perish, he dies also. Does Thou interest thyself for him? O, blessed stranger, in my heart is the earn which condemned for freeze him. And Thou will give full evidence of what Thou wished? Will? O, where hell at my feet? Yes. Revenge on the false Egyptian. Revenge, revenge, revenge, as through his ground teeth Kalina's streak forth these last words. Nadia felt that in his worst passions was her certainty of his justice to the Athenian. Her heart beat. Was it to be her proud destiny to preserve her idolized, her adorned? Enough, said she. The powers that conducted me hither will carry me through all. Yes, I feel that I shall deliver thee wait impatient in hope. But be cautious. Be prudent, sweet stranger. Attempt not to appeal to arbises. He is marble. Seek the preter. Say what Thou knowest. Obtain his writ of search. Bring soldiers and smiths of cunning. These locks are wondrous strong. Time flies. I may starve, starve, if you are not quick. Go. Go. Yes, stay. It is horrible to be alone. The air is like a chanel, and the scorpions, ha, and the pale larva. Oh, stay. Stay. Nay, says Nadia, terrified by the terror of the priest, and anxious to confer with herself. Nay, for thy sake, I must depart. Take hope for thy companion. Farewell. So saying, she glided away and felt with extended arms along the pillared space until she had gained the further end of the hall in the mouth of the passage that led to the upper air. But there she paused. She felt that it would be more safe to wait a while until the night was so far blended with the morning that the whole house would be buried in sleep, and so that she might quit it unobserved. She, therefore, once more laid herself down and counted the weary moments. In her sank-wine heart joy was the predominant emotion. Glocus was in deadly peril, but she could save him. In the Book 4, Chapter 14, Recording by Ben Wilford of Jackson, Tennessee. Book 4, Chapter 15 of Last Days of Pompeii This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording by Amy Benton. Last Days of Pompeii by Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton Book 4, Chapter 15 Arbisese and Ione. Nidia gains the garden. Will she escape and save the Athenian? When Arbisese had warmed his veins by large drafts of that spiced and perfumed wine so valued by the luxurious, he felt more than usually elated and exultant there was a pride in triumphant ingenuity, not less felt perhaps though its object be guilty. Our vain human nature hugs itself in the consciousness of superior craft and self-obtained success. Afterwards comes the horrible reaction of remorse. But remorse was not a feeling which Arbisese was likely ever to experience for the fate of the base Calanus. He swept from his remembrance the thought of the priest's agonies and lingering anger was passed and a possible foe silenced. All left to him now would be to account to the priesthood for the disappearance of Calanus and this, he imagined, it would not be difficult to do. Calanus had often been employed by him in various religious missions to the neighbouring cities. On some such errand he could now assert that he had been sent with offerings to the shrines of Isis at Herculinium and Neopolis, placatory of the goddess for the recent murder of her priest, Apesides. Calanus had expired. His body might be thrown, previous to the Egyptians' departure from Pompeii, into the deep stream of the Sarnus and when discovered suspicion would probably fall upon the Nazarene atheists as an act of revenge for the death of Allentus at the arena. After rapidly running over these plans for screening himself, Arbisese dismissed at once from his mind all recollection of the wretched priest and animated by the success which had crowned all his schemes, he surrendered his thoughts to Ioni. The last time he had seen her, she had driven him from her presence by a reproachful and bitter scorn which his arrogant nature was unable to endure. Now he felt emboldened once more to renew that interview, for his passion for her was like a similar feeling in other men. It made him restless for her presence, even though in that presence he was exasperated and humbled. From delicacy to her grief he laid robes, but renewing the perfumes on his raven locks and arranging his tunic in its most becoming folds he sought the chamber of the Neapolitan. Acostaing the slave in attendance without he inquired if Ioni had yet retired to rest and learning that she was still up and unusually quiet and composed he ventured into her presence. He found his beautiful ward sitting before a small table and leaning her face upon both her hands in the attitude of thought. Yet the expression of the eyes itself possessed not its wanted bright and psyche-like expression of sweet intelligence, the lips were apart, the eyes vacant and unheeding and the long dark hair falling neglected and disheveled upon her neck gave by the contrast additional paleness to a cheek which had already lost the roundness of its contour. Arbisese gazed upon her a moment ere he advanced. She too lifted up her eyes and when she saw who was the intruder shut them with an expression of pain but did not stir. Ah! said Arbisese in a low and earnest tone as he respectfully, nay, humbly advanced and seated himself at a little distance from the table. Ah! that my death could remove thy hatred, then would I gladly die. Thou wrongest me, Ioni, but I will bear the wrong without a murmur. Only let me see thee sometimes, chide, reproach, scorn me, if thou wilt. I will teach myself to bear it. And even thy bitterest tone sweeter to me than the music of the most artful loot. In thy silence the world seems to stand still. A stagnation curdles up the veins of the earth. There is no earth, no life, without the light of thy countenance and the melody of thy voice. Give me back my brother in my betrothed, said Ioni, in a calm and imploring tone, and a few large tears rolled unheeded down her cheeks. Would that I could restore the one and save the one? returned Arbyses with a parent emotion. Yes, to make thee happy I would renounce my ill-fated love and gladly join thy hand to the Athenians. Perhaps he will yet come unscathed from his trial. Arbyses had prevented her from learning that the trial had already commenced. If so, thou art free to judge or condemn him thyself. And think not, O Ioni, that I would follow thee longer with a prayer of love. I know it is in vain. Suffer me only to weep, to mourn with thee. Forgive a violence deeply repented, and that shall offend no more. Let me be to thee only what I once was, a friend, a father, a protector. Ah, Ioni, spare me, and forgive. I forgive thee, save but Glacus, and I will renounce him, O mighty Arbyses, thou art powerful and evil or in good. Save the Athenian, and the poor Ioni will never see him more. As she spoke, she rose with weak and trembling limbs, and falling at his feet, she clasped his knees. Oh, if thou really lovest me, if thou art human, remember my father's ashes, remember my childhood, think of all the hours we passed happily together, and save my Glacus. Strange convulsions shook the frame of the Egyptian. His features worked fearfully. He turned his face aside and said in a hollow voice, if I could save him even now, I would, but the Roman law is stern and sharp. Yet if I could succeed, if I could rescue and set him free, wouldst thou be mine? My bride? Thine, repeated Ioni, rising, thine, thy bride, my brother's blood is unavanged, who slew him? O nemesis, can I even sell for the life of Glacus thy solemn trust? Arbyses, thine? Never. Ioni, Ioni," cried Arbyses passionately, why these mysterious words, why dost thou couple my name with the thought of thy brother's death? My dreams couple it, and dreams are from the gods. Vane fantasies all, it is for a dream that thou would strong the innocent and hazard thy soul chance of saving thy lover's life. Hear me," said Ioni, speaking voice, if Glacus be saved by thee, I will never be born to his home a bride, but I cannot master the horror of other rites, I cannot wed with thee. Interrupt me not. But mark me, Arbyses, if Glacus die, on that same day I baffle thine arts and leave to thy love only my dust. Yes, thou mayest put the knife and the poison from my reach, thou mayest imprison, thou mayest save soul resolved to escape is never without means. These hands, naked and unarmed though they be, shall tear away the bonds of life, fetcher them, and these lips shall firmly refuse the air. Thou art learned. Thou hast read how women have died rather than meet dishonor. If Glacus perish, I will not unworthily linger behind him. By all the gods of the heaven and the ocean and the earth I said, I, proud, delating in her stature like one inspired, the air and the voice of Ione struck an awe into the breast of a listener. Brave heart, said he after a short pause. Thou art indeed worthy to be mine. Oh, that I should have dreamt of such a partner in my lofty destinies and never found it but in thee. Ione, he continued rapidly, dost thou not see that we were born for each other? Thou not recognize something kindred to thine own energy, thine own courage in this high and self-dependent soul? We were formed to unite our sympathies, formed to breathe a new spirit into this hackneyed and gross world, formed for the mighty ends which my soul sweeping down the gloom of time foresees with a prophet's vision. With a resolution equal to thine own I defy thy threats of an inglorious suicide. I hail thee as my own, queen of climbs undarkened by the eagle's wing, unravaged by his beak. I bow before thee in homage and in awe, and I claim thee in worship and in love. Together we will cross the ocean, together we will found our realm, and far distant ages shall acknowledge the long race of kings born from the marriage bed of Arbyses and Ione. Thou ravest these mystic declamations are suited rather to some palsy crone selling charms in the marketplace than to the wise Arbyses. Thou hast heard my resolution, it is fixed as the fates themselves, Orcus has heard my vow, and it is written in the book of the unforgettable Hades. A tone then, O Arbyses, a tone the past, convert hatred into regard, vengeance into gratitude, preserve one who shall never be thy rival. These are the acts suited to thy original nature which gives forth sparks of something high and noble. They weigh in the scales of the kings of death, they turn their balance on that day when the disembodied soul stands shivering and dismayed between Tartarus and Elysium. They gladden the heart in life better and longer than the reward of a momentary passion. O Arbyses, hear me and be swayed. Enough Ione, all that I can do for Glockus shall be done, but blame me not if I fail. Inquire of my foes even, if I have not sought, if I do not seek to turn aside the sentence from his accordingly. Sleep then, Ione. Nightwains, I leave thee to rest, and mayest thou have kinder dreams of one who has no existence but in thine. Without waiting for a reply, Arbyses hastily withdrew, afraid perhaps to trust himself farther to the passionate prayer of Ione which racked him with jealousy, even while it touched him to compassion. But compassion itself had come too late. Had Ione even pledged him her hand as a reward he could not now, his evidence given the populace excited have saved the Athenian. Still made sanguine by the very energy of mind he threw himself on the chances of the future and believed he could yet triumph over the woman who had so entangled his passions. As his attendance assisted to unrobe him for the night the thought of Nidia flashed across him. He felt it was necessary that Ione should never learn of her lover's frenzy lest it might excuse his imputed crime, and it was possible that his attendance might inform her that Nidia was under his roof, and that she might desire to see her. As this idea crossed him he turned to one of his freedmen. Go, Calius! said he, forthwith to Sozia, and tell him that on no pretense is he to suffer the blind slave Nidia out of her chamber. But stay! First seek those in attendance upon my ward and caution them not to inform her that the blind girl is under my roof. Go, quick! The freedmen hastened to obey. After having discharged his commission with as respect to Ione's attendance he sought the worthy Sozia. He found him not in the little cell which was apportioned for his cubiculum, but he called his name aloud and from Nidia's chamber, close at hand he heard the voice of Sozia reply, Oh, Calius! Is it you that I hear? The gods be praised! Open the door, I pray you! Calius withdrew the bolt and the rootful face of Sozia hastily protruded itself. What! In the chamber with that young girl, Sozia! Pro! Pudor! Are there not fruits ripe enough on the wall that thou must tamper with such green? Name not that little witch! Interrupted Sozia impatiently. She will be my ruin! And he forthwith imparted to Calius the history of the heir-demon and the escape of the Thessalian. Hang thyself then, unhappy Sozia! I am just charged from Arbyses with a message on thee. On no account art thou to suffer her, even for a moment from that chamber. May Miserum exclaimed the slave. What can I do? By this time she may have visited half Pompeii, but to-morrow I will undertake to catch her in her old haunts. Keep but thy counsel, my dear Calius. I would do all that friendship can consistent with my own safety, but are you sure that she has left the house? She may be hiding here yet. How is that possible? She could easily have gained the garden until thee was open. Nay, not so. For at that very hour thou specifyest Arbyses was in the garden, with the priest, Calinus. I went there in search of some herbs for my master's bath to-morrow. I saw the table set out, but the gate, I am sure, was shut. Depend upon it. The Calinus entered by the garden and naturally closed the door after him. But it was not locked? Yes. For I myself, the parastyle to the mercy of any robber turned to the key, took it away, and, as I did not see the proper slave to whom to give it, or I should have rated him finally, here it actually is still in my girdle. Oh, merciful Bacchus! I did not pray to thee in vain after all. Let us not lose a moment. Let us to the garden instantly. She may yet be there. The good-natured Calius consented to assist the slave, and after vainly searching the chambers at hand of the parastyle, they entered the garden. It was about this time that Nidia had resolved to quit her hiding-place and venture forth on her way. Lightly, tremulously, holding her breath, whichever in an on broke forth in quick convulsive gasps, now gliding by the flower, wreathed columns that bordered the parastyle, now darkening the still moonshine that fell over its tessellated center, now ascending the terrace of the garden, now gliding amidst the gloomy and breathless trees, she gained the fatal door to find it locked. We have all seen that expression of pain, of uncertainty, of fear, which of sudden disappointment of touch, if I may use the expression, cast over the face of the blind. But what words can paint the intolerable woe, the sinking of the whole heart which was now visible in the features of the Thessalian? Again and again, her small quivering hands wandered to and fro the inexorable door, poor thing that thou wert. In vain had been all thy noble courage, thy innocent craft, thy doublings to escape the hound and the huntsman. Within but a few yards from thee, laughing at thy endeavours, thy despair, knowing thou wert now their own and watching with cruel patience their own moment to seize their prey, thou art saved from seeing thy pursuers. Hush, Calius, let her go on. Let's see what she will do when she has convinced herself that the door is honest. Look, she raises her face to the heavens. She mutters. She sinks down despondent. No, by Pollux, she has some new scheme. She will not resign herself by Jupiter, a tough spirit. See, she springs up. She retraces her steps. She thinks for some other chance. I advise thee, Soja, to delay no longer. See, sir, ere she quit the garden now. Ah, run away. Hey! said Soja, seizing upon the unhappy Nadia, as a hare's last human cry in the fangs of the dog, as the sharp voice of terror uttered by a sleep-walker suddenly awakened broke the shriek of the blind girl when she felt the abrupt grip of her goller. It was a shriek of such utter agony, such entire despair that it might have rung hauntingly in your ears forever. She felt as if the last plank of the sinking glaucus were torn from his clasp. It had been a suspense of life and death, and death had now won the game. Gods! that cry will alarm the house. Arbusy sleeps full lightly. Gagger! cried Callius. Ah, here's a very napkin which the young witch conjured away for my reason. Come, that's right. Now thou art dumb as well as blind. And catching the lightweight in his arms, Soja soon gained the house and reached the chamber from which Nadia had escaped. There, removing the gag, he left her to a solitude so wracked and terrible that out of Hades its anguish could scarcely be exceeded.