e by to-morrow's starlight a vain maiden,
seeking of thine art a love-charm to fascinate from another the eyes
that should utter but soft tales to her own: instead of thy philtres,
give the maiden one of thy most powerful poisons. Let the lover breathe
his vows to the Shades.'

The witch trembled from head to foot.

'Oh pardon! pardon! dread master,' said she, falteringly, 'but this I
dare not. The law in these cities is sharp and vigilant; they will
seize, they will slay me.'

'For what purpose, then, thy herbs and thy potions, vain Saga?' said
Arbaces, sneeringly.

The witch hid her loathsome face with her hands.

'Oh! years ago,' said she, in a voice unlike her usual tones, so
plaintive was it, and so soft, 'I was not the thing that I am now. I
loved, I fancied myself beloved.'

'And what connection hath thy love, witch, with my commands?' said
Arbaces, impetuously.

'Patience,' resumed the witch; 'patience, I implore. I loved! another
and less fair than I--yes, by Nemesis! less fair--allured from me my
chosen. I was of that dark Etrurian tribe to whom most of all were
known the secrets of the gloomier magic. My mother was herself a saga:
she shared the resentment of her child; from her hands I received the
potion that was to restore me his love; and from her, also, the poison
that was to destroy my rival. Oh, crush me, dread walls! my trembling
hands mistook the phials, my lover fell indeed at my feet; but dead!
dead! dead! Since then, what has been life to me I became suddenly old,
I devoted myself to the sorceries of my race; still by an irresistible
impulse I curse myself with an awful penance; still I seek the most
noxious herbs; still I concoct the poisons; still I imagine that I am to
give them to my hated rival; still I pour them into the phial; still I
fancy that they shall blast her beauty to the dust; still I wake and see
the quivering body, the foaming lips, the glazing eyes of my
Aulus--murdered, and by me!'

The skeleton frame of the witch shook beneath strong convulsions.

Arbaces gazed upon her with a curious though contemptuous eye.

'And this foul thing has yet human emotions!' thought he; 'still she
cowers over the ashes of the same fire that consumes Arbaces!--Such are
we all! Mystic is the tie of those mortal passions that unite the
greatest and the least.'

He did not reply till she had somewhat recovered herself, and now sat
rocking to and fro in her seat, with glassy eyes