'We disturb you, I fear,' said the silver voice of Ione, in
conciliation.
The witch did not reply--she seemed like one who has awakened for a
moment from the dead, and has then relapsed once more into the eternal
slumber.
'Tell me,' said she, suddenly, and after a long pause, 'are ye brother
and sister?'
'No,' said Ione, blushing.
'Are ye married?'
'Not so,' replied Glaucus.
'Ho, lovers!--ha!--ha!--ha!' and the witch laughed so loud and so long
that the caverns rang again.
The heart of Ione stood still at that strange mirth. Glaucus muttered a
rapid counterspell to the omen--and the slave turned as pale as the
cheek of the witch herself.
'Why dost thou laugh, old crone?' said Glaucus, somewhat sternly, as he
concluded his invocation.
'Did I laugh?' said the hag, absently.
'She is in her dotage,' whispered Glaucus: as he said this, he caught
the eye of the hag fixed upon him with a malignant and vivid glare.
'Thou liest!' said she, abruptly.
'Thou art an uncourteous welcomer,' returned Glaucus.
'Hush! provoke her not, dear Glaucus!' whispered Ione.
'I will tell thee why I laughed when I discovered ye were lovers,' said
the old woman. 'It was because it is a pleasure to the old and withered
to look upon young hearts like yours--and to know the time will come
when you will loathe each other--loathe--loathe--ha!--ha!--ha!'
It was now Ione's turn to pray against the unpleasing prophecy.
'The gods forbid!' said she. 'Yet, poor woman, thou knowest little of
love, or thou wouldst know that it never changes.'
'Was I young once, think ye?' returned the hag, quickly; 'and am I old,
and hideous, and deathly now? Such as is the form, so is the heart.'
With these words she sank again into a stillness profound and fearful,
as if the cessation of life itself.
'Hast thou dwelt here long?' said Glaucus, after a pause, feeling
uncomfortably oppressed beneath a silence so appalling.
'Ah, long!--yes.'
'It is but a drear abode.'
'Ha! thou mayst well say that--Hell is beneath us!' replied the hag,
pointing her bony finger to the earth. 'And I will tell thee a
secret--the dim things below are preparing wrath for ye above--you, the
young, and the thoughtless, and the beautiful.'
'Thou utterest but evil words, ill becoming the hospitable,' said
Glaucus; 'and in future I will brave the tempest rather than thy
welcome.'
'Thou wilt do well. None should ever seek me--save the wretched!'
'And why the wretched?' asked the Athenian.
'I am the witch of the mountain,' replied the sorceress, with a ghastly
grin; 'my trade is to give hope to the hopeless: for the crossed in love
I have philtres; for the avaricious, promises of treasure; for the
malicious, potions of revenge; for the happy and the good, I have only
what life has--curses! Trouble me no more.
With this the grim tenant of the cave relapsed into a silence so
obstinate and sullen, that Glaucus in vain endeavored to draw her into
farther conversation. She did not evince, by any alteration of her
locked and rigid features, that she even heard him. Fortunately,
however, the storm, which was brief as violent, began now to relax; the
rain grew less and less fierce; and at last, as the clouds parted, the
moon burst forth in the purple opening of heaven, and streamed clear and
full into that desolate abode. Never had she shone, perhaps, on a group
more worthy of the painter's art. The young, the all-beautiful Ione,
seated by that rude fire--her lover already forgetful of the presence of
the hag, at her feet, gazing upward to her face, and whispering sweet
words--the pale and affrighted slave at a little distance--and the
ghastly hag resting her deadly eyes upon them; yet seemingly serene and
fearless (for the companionship of love hath such power) were these
beautiful beings, things of another sphere, in that dark and unholy
cavern, with its gloomy quaintness of appurtenance. The fox regarded
them from his corner with his keen and fiery eye: and as Glaucus now
turned towards the witch, he perceived for the first time, just under
her seat, the bright gaze and crested head of a large snake: whether it
was that the vivid coloring of the Athenian's cloak, thrown over the
shoulders of Ione, attracted the reptile's anger--its crest began to
glow and rise, as if menacing and preparing itself to spring upon the
Neapolitan--Glaucus caught quickly at one of the half-burned logs upon
the hearth--and, as if enraged at the action, the snake came forth from
its shelter, and with a loud hiss raised itself on end till its height
nearly approached that of the Greek.
'Witch!' cried Glaucus, 'command thy creature, or thou wilt see it
dead.'
'It has been despoiled of its venom!' said the witch, aroused at his
threat; but ere the words had left her lip, the snake had sprung upon
Glaucus; quick and watchful, the agile Greek leaped lightly aside, and
struck so fell and dexterous a blow on the head of the snake, that it
fell prostrate and writhing among the embers of the fire.
The hag sprung up, and stood confronting Glaucus with a face which would
have befitted the fiercest of the Furies, so utterly dire and wrathful
was its expression--yet even in horror and ghastliness preserving the
outline and trace of beauty--and utterly free from that coarse grotesque
at which the imaginations of the North have sought the source of terror.
'Thou hast,' said she, in a slow and steady voice--which belied the
expression of her face, so much was it passionless and calm--'thou hast
had shelter under my roof, and warmth at my hearth; thou hast returned
evil for good; thou hast smitten and haply slain the thing that loved me
and was mine: nay, more, the creature, above all others, consecrated to
gods and deemed venerable by man,--now hear thy punishment. By the
moon, who is the guardian of the sorceress--by Orcus, who is the
treasurer of wrath--I curse thee! and thou art cursed! May thy love be
blasted--may thy name be blackened--may the infernals mark thee--may thy
heart wither and scorch--may thy last hour recall to thee the prophet
voice of the Saga of Vesuvius! And thou,' she added, turning sharply
towards Ione, and raising her right arm, when Glaucus burst impetuously
on her speech:
'Hag!' cried he, 'forbear! Me thou hast cursed, and I commit myself to
the gods--I defy and scorn thee! but breathe but one word against yon
maiden, and I will convert the oath on thy foul lips to thy dying groan.
Beware!'
'I have done,' replied the hag, laughing wildly; 'for in thy doom is she
who loves thee accursed. And not the less, that I heard her lips
breathe thy name, and know by what word to commend thee to the demons.
Glaucus--thou art doomed!' So saying, the witch turned from the
Athenian, and kneeling down beside her wounded favorite, which she
dragged from the hearth, she turned to them her face no more.
'O Glaucus!' said Ione, greatly terrified, 'what have we done?--Let us
hasten from this place; the storm has ceased. Good mistress, forgive
him--recall thy words--he meant but to defend himself--accept this
peace-offering to unsay the said': and Ione, stooping, placed her purse
on the hag's lap.
'Away!' said she, bitterly--'away! The oath once woven the Fates only
can untie. Away!'
'Come, dearest!' said Glaucus, impatiently. 'Thinkest thou that the
gods above us or below hear the impotent ravings of dotage? Come!'
Long and loud rang the echoes of the cavern with the dread laugh of the
Saga--she deigned no further reply.
The lovers breathed more freely when they gained the open air: yet the
scene they had witnessed, the words and the laughter of the witch, still
fearfully dwelt with Ione; and even Glaucus could not thoroughly shake
off the impression they bequeathed. The storm had subsided--save, now
and then, a low thunder muttered at the distance amidst the darker
clouds, or a momentary flash of lightning affronted the sovereignty of
the moon. With some difficulty they regained the road, where they found
the vehicle already sufficiently repaired for their departure, and the
carrucarius calling loudly upon Hercules to tell him where his charge
had vanished.
Glaucus vainly endeavored to cheer the exhausted spirits of Ione; and
scarce less vainly to recover the elastic tone of his own natural
gaiety. They soon arrived before the gate of the city: as it opened to
them, a litter borne by slaves impeded the way.
'It is too late for egress,' cried the sentinel to the inmate of the
litter.
'Not so,' said a voice, which the lovers started to hear; it was a voice
they well recognized. 'I am bound to the villa of Marcus Polybius. I
shall return shortly. I am Arbaces the Egyptian.'
The scruples of him at the gate were removed, and the litter passed
close beside the carriage that bore the lovers.
'Arbaces, at this hour!--scarce recovered too, methinks!--Whither and
for what can he leave the city?' said Glaucus.
'Alas!' replied Ione, bursting into tears, 'my soul feels still more and
more the omen of evil. Preserve us, O ye Gods! or at least,' she
murmured inly, 'preserve my Glaucus!'
Chapter X
THE LORD OF THE BURNING BELT AND HIS MINION. FATE WRITES HER PROPHECY
IN RED LETTERS, BUT WHO SHALL READ THEM?
ARBACES had tarried only till the cessation of the tempest allowed him,
under cover of night, to seek the Saga of Vesuvius. Borne by those of
his trustier slaves in whom in all more secret expeditions he was
accustomed to confide, he lay extended along his litter, and resigning
his sanguine heart to the contemplation of vengeance gratified and love
possessed. The slaves in so short a journey moved very little slower
than the ordinary pace of mules; and Arbaces soon arrived at the
commencement of a narrow path, which the lovers had not been fortunate
enough to discover; but which, skirting the thick vines, led at once to
the habitation of the witch. Here he rested the litter; and bidding his
slaves conceal themselves and the vehicle among the vines from the
observation of any chance passenger, he mounted alone, with steps still
feeble but supported by a long staff, the drear and sharp ascent.
Not a drop of rain fell from the tranquil heaven; but the moisture
dripped mournfully from the laden boughs of the vine, and now and then
collected in tiny pools in the crevices and hollows of the rocky way.
'Strange passions these for a philosopher,' thought Arbaces, 'that lead
one like me just new from the bed of death, and lapped even in health
amidst the roses of luxury, across such nocturnal paths as this; but
Passion and Vengeance treading to their goal can make an Elysium of a
Tartarus.' High, clear, and melancholy shone the moon above the road of
that dark wayfarer, glossing herself in every pool that lay before him,
and sleeping in shadow along the sloping mount. He saw before him the
same light that had guided the steps of his intended victims, but, no
longer contrasted by the blackened clouds, it shone less redly clear.
He paused, as at length he approached the mouth of the cavern, to
recover breath; and then, with his wonted collected and stately mien, he
crossed the unhallowed threshold.
The fox sprang up at the ingress of this newcomer, and by a long howl
announced another visitor to his mistress.
The witch had resumed her seat, and her aspect of gravelike and grim
repose. By her feet, upon a bed of dry weeds which half covered it, lay
the wounded snake; but the quick eye of the Egyptian caught its scales
glittering in the reflected light of the opposite fire, as it
writhed--now contracting, now lengthening, its folds, in pain and
unsated anger.
'Down, slave!' said the witch, as before, to the fox; and, as before,
the animal dropped to the ground--mute, but vigilant.
'Rise, servant of Nox and Erebus!' said Arbaces, commandingly; 'a
superior in thine art salutes thee! rise, and welcome him.'
At these words the hag turned her gaze upon the Egyptian's towering form
and dark features. She looked long and fixedly upon him, as he stood
before her in his Oriental robe, and folded arms, and steadfast and
haughty brow. 'Who art thou,' she said at last, 'that callest thyself
greater in art than the Saga of the Burning Fields, and the daughter of
the perished Etrurian race?'
'I am he,' answered Arbaces, 'from whom all cultivators of magic, from
north to south, from east to west, from the Ganges and the Nile to the
vales of Thessaly and the shores of the yellow Tiber, have stooped to
learn.'
'There is but one such man in these places,' answered the witch, 'whom
the men of the outer world, unknowing his loftier attributes and more
secret fame, call Arbaces the Egyptian: to us of a higher nature and
deeper knowledge, his rightful appellation is Hermes of the Burning
Girdle.'
'Look again, returned Arbaces: 'I am he.'
As he spoke he drew aside his robe, and revealed a cincture seemingly of
fire, that burned around his waist, clasped in the centre by a plate
whereon was engraven some sign apparently vague and unintelligible but
which was evidently not unknown to the Saga. She rose hastily, and
threw herself at the feet of Arbaces. 'I have seen, then,' said she, in
a voice of deep humility, 'the Lord of the Mighty Girdle--vouchsafe my
homage.'
'Rise,' said the Egyptian; 'I have need of thee.'
So saying, he placed himself on the same log of wood on which Ione had
rested before, and motioned to the witch to resume her seat.
