stream of the Sarnus; and when discovered, suspicion would probably fall
upon the Nazarene atheists, as an act of revenge for the death of
Olinthus at the arena. After rapidly running over these plans for
screening himself, Arbaces dismissed at once from his mind all
recollection of the wretched priest; and, animated by the success which
had lately crowned all his schemes, he surrendered his thoughts to Ione.
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. He now felt emboldened once more to renew that interview; for
his passion for her was like similar feelings 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 not aside
his dark and unfestive 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. Accosting the slave in attendance without,
he inquired if Ione 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 face itself possessed not its wonted bright and
Psyche-like expression of sweet intelligence; the lips were apart--the
eye 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.
Arbaces 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 Arbaces 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, Ione; 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 is not even thy bitterest
tone sweeter to me than the music of the most artful lute? 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 and my betrothed,' said Ione, 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 other!' returned
Arbaces, with apparent emotion. 'Yes; to make thee happy I would
renounce my ill-fated love, and gladly join thy hand to the Athenian's.
Perhaps he will yet come unscathed from his trial (Arbaces had prevented
her learning that the trial had already commenced); if so, thou art free
to judge or condemn him thyself. And think not, O Ione, 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, Ione! spare me and
forgive.'
'I forgive thee. Save but Glaucus, and I will renounce him. O mighty
Arbaces! thou art powerful in evil or in good: save the Athenian, and
the poor Ione 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 Glaucus!'
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 Ione, rising: 'thine!--thy bride? My brother's blood
is unavenged: who slew him? O Nemesis, can I even sell, for the life of
Glaucus, thy solemn trust? Arbaces--thine? Never.'
'Ione, Ione!' cried Arbaces, 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.'
'Vain fantasies all! Is it for a dream that thou wouldst wrong the
innocent, and hazard thy sole chance of saving thy lover's life?'
'Hear me!' said Ione, speaking firmly, and with a deliberate and solemn
voice: 'If Glaucus be saved by thee, I will never be borne 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, Arbaces!--if Glaucus die, on that
same day I baffle thine arts, and leave to thy love only my dust!
Yes--thou mayst put the knife and the poison from my reach--thou mayst
imprison--thou mayst chain me, but the brave soul resolved to escape is
never without means. These hands, naked and unarmed though they be,
shall tear away the bonds of life. Fetter them, and these lips shall
firmly refuse the air. Thou art learned--thou hast read how women have
died rather than meet dishonour. If Glaucus perish, I will not
unworthily linger behind him. By all the gods of the heaven, and the
ocean, and the earth, I devote myself to death! I have said!'
High, proud, dilating in her stature, like one inspired, the air and
voice of Ione struck an awe into the breast of her 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 are born for each other? Canst 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 climes undarkened by the eagle's wing, unravaged by
his beak, I bow before thee in homage and in awe--but I claim thee in
worship and in love! Together will we cross the ocean--together will we
found our realm; and far distant ages shall acknowledge the long race of
kings born from the marriage-bed of Arbaces and Ione!'
'Thou ravest! These mystic declamations are suited rather to some
palsied crone selling charms in the market-place than to the wise
Arbaces. 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 unforgetful Hades. Atone, then, O Arbaces!--atone the past: convert
hatred into regard--vengeance into gratitude; preserve one who shall
never be thy rival. These are 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 the 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. Oh, Arbaces! hear me, and be swayed!'
'Enough, Ione. All that I can do for Glaucus 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 head; and judge me
accordingly. Sleep then, Ione. Night wanes; I leave thee to rest--and
mayst thou have kinder dreams of one who has no existence but in thine.'
Without waiting a reply, Arbaces hastily withdrew; afraid, perhaps, to
trust himself further to the passionate prayer of Ione, which racked him
with jealousy, even while it touched him to compassion. But compassion
itself came too late. Had Ione even pledged him her hand as his reward,
he could not now--his evidence given--the populace excited--have saved
the Athenian. Still made sanguine by his very energy of mind, he threw
himself on the chances of the future, and believed he should yet triumph
over the woman that had so entangled his passions.
As his attendants assisted to unrobe him for the night, the thought of
Nydia 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 her attendants might inform her that
Nydia was under his roof, and she might desire to see her. As this idea
crossed him, he turned to one of his freedmen:
'Go, Callias,' said he, 'forthwith to Sosia, and tell him, that on no
pretence is he to suffer the blind slave Nydia 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 freedman hastened to obey. After having discharged his commission
with respect to Ione's attendants, he sought the worthy Sosia. He found
him not in the little cell which was apportioned for his cubiculum; he
called his name aloud, and from Nydia's chamber, close at hand, he heard
the voice of Sosia reply:
'Oh, Callias, is it you that I hear?--the gods be praised!' Open the
door, I pray you!'
Callias withdrew the bolt, and the rueful face of Sosia hastily
protruded itself.
'What!--in the chamber with that young girl, Sosia! Proh pudor! Are
there not fruits ripe enough on the wall, but that thou must tamper with
such green...'
'Name not the little witch!' interrupted Sosia, impatiently; 'she will
be my ruin!' And he forthwith imparted to Callias the history of the Air
Demon, and the escape of the Thessalian.
'Hang thyself, then, unhappy Sosia! I am just charged from Arbaces with
a message to thee; on no account art thou to suffer her, even for a
moment, from that chamber!'
'Me miserum!' exclaimed the slave. 'What can I do!--by this time she
may have visited half Pompeii. But tomorrow I will undertake to catch
her in her old haunts. Keep but my counsel, my dear Callias.'
'I will do all that friendship can, consistent with my own safety. But
are you sure she has left the house?--she may be hiding here yet.'
'How is that possible? She could easily have gained the garden; and the
door, as I told thee, was open.'
'Nay, not so; for, at that very hour thou specifiest, Arbaces was in the
garden with the priest Calenus. 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, that Calenus entered by the garden,
and naturally closed the door after him.'
'But it was not locked.'
'Yes; for I myself, angry at a negligence which might expose the bronzes
in the peristyle to the mercy of any robber, turned 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 finely--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 Callias consented to assist the slave; and after vainly
searching the chambers at hand, and the recesses of the peristyle, they
entered the garden.
It was about this time that Nydia had resolved to quit her hiding-place,
and venture forth on her way. Lightly, tremulously holding her breath,
which ever and anon broke forth in quick convulsive gasps--now gliding
by the flower--wreathed columns that bordered the peristyle--now
darkening the still moonshine that fell over its tessellated centre--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 a
sudden disappointment of touch, if I may use the expression, casts over
the face of the blind. But what words can paint the intolerable woe, the
sinking of the whole heart, which was now visible on 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 huntsmen! Within but a few yards from thee, laughing at thy
endeavors--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, Callias!--let her go on. Let us 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 of some other chance!--I advise thee,
Sosia, to delay no longer: seize her ere she quit the garden--now!'
'Ah! runaway! I have thee--eh?' said Sosia, seizing upon the unhappy
Nydia. As a hare's last human cry in the fangs of the dogs--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 gripe of her gaoler.
It was a shriek of such utter agony, such entire despair, that it might
have rung hauntingly in your ears for ever. She felt as if the last
