lty 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