htless--to the sky, whose soft face she
had never seen!

'No, no!' she said, half aloud, and in a musing and thoughtful tone, 'I
cannot endure it; this jealous, exacting love--it shatters my whole soul
in madness! I might harm him again--wretch that I was! I have saved
him--twice saved him--happy, happy thought: why not die happy?--it is
the last glad thought I can ever know. Oh! sacred Sea! I hear thy
voice invitingly--it hath a freshening and joyous call. They say that in
thy embrace is dishonour--that thy victims cross not the fatal Styx--be
it so!--I would not meet him in the Shades, for I should meet him still
with her! Rest--rest--rest! there is no other Elysium for a heart like
mine!'

A sailor, half dozing on the deck, heard a slight splash on the waters.
Drowsily he looked up, and behind, as the vessel merrily bounded on, he
fancied he saw something white above the waves; but it vanished in an
instant. He turned round again, and dreamed of his home and children.

When the lovers awoke, their first thought was of each other--their next
of Nydia! She was not to be found--none had seen her since the night.
Every crevice of the vessel was searched--there was no trace of her.
Mysterious from first to last, the blind Thessalian had vanished for
ever from the living world! They guessed her fate in silence: and
Glaucus and Ione, while they drew nearer to each other (feeling each
other the world itself), forgot their deliverance, and wept as for a
departed sister.

Chapter The Last

WHEREIN ALL THINGS CEASE LETTER FROM GLAUCUS TO SALLUST, TEN YEARS AFTER
THE DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII.

'Athens.

GLAUCUS to his beloved Sallust--greeting and health!--You request me to
visit you at Rome--no, Sallust, come rather to me at Athens! I have
forsworn the Imperial City, its mighty tumult and hollow joys. In my
own land henceforth I dwell for ever. The ghost of our departed
greatness is dearer to me than the gaudy life of your loud prosperity.
There is a charm to me which no other spot can supply, in the porticoes
hallowed still by holy and venerable shades. In the olive-groves of
Ilyssus I still hear the voice of poetry--on the heights of Phyle, the
clouds of twilight seem yet the shrouds of departed freedom--the
heralds--the heralds--of the morrow that shall come! You smile at my
enthusiasm, Sallust!--better be hopeful in chains than resigned to their
glitter. You tell me you are sure that I cannot enjoy