ts, 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,'