Book 4, Chapter 1 of last days of Pompeii. This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Blashford. Last days of Pompeii by Edward G. Bulwa-Lytton. Book 4, Chapter 1. Reflections on the zeal of the early Christians. Two men come to a perilous resolve. Walls have ears, particularly sacred walls. Whoever regards the early history of Christianity will perceive how necessary to its triumph was that fierce spirit of zeal, which, fearing no danger, accepting no compromise, inspired its champions and sustained its martyrs. In a dominant church, the genius of intolerance betrays its cause. In a weak and persecuted church, the same genius mainly supports. It was necessary to scorn, to loathe, to abhor the creeds of other men, in order to conquer the temptations which they presented. It was necessary rigidly to believe not only that the gospel was the true faith, but the sole truth-faith that saved, in order to nerve the disciple to the austerity of its doctrine, and to encourage him to the sacred and perilous chivalry of converting the poletheist and the heathen. The sectarian sternness which confined virtue in heaven to a chosen few, which saw demons in other gods, and the penalties of hell in other religions, made the believer naturally anxious to convert all to whom he felt the ties of human affection, and the circle thus traced by benevolence to man was yet more widened by a desire for the glory of God. It was for the honour of the Christian faith that the Christian boldly forced its tenets upon the skepticism of some, the repugnance of others, the sage contempt of the philosopher, the pious shudder of the people. His very intolerance supplied him with his fittest instruments of success, and the soft heathen began at last to imagine there must indeed be something holy in a zeal wholly foreign to his experience, which stopped at no obstacle, dreaded no danger, and even at the torture or on the scaffold referred a dispute far other than the calm differences of speculative philosophy to the tribunal of an eternal judge. It was thus that the same fervour which made the churchmen of the middle age a bigot without mercy made the Christian of the early days a hero without fear. Of these more fiery, daring and earnest natures, not the least ardent was Alintas. No sooner had Apicides been received by the rites of baptism into the bosom of the church, than the Nazarene hastened to make him conscious of the impossibility to retain the office and robes of priesthood. He could not, it was evident, profess to worship God, and continue even outwardly to honour the idolatrous altars of the fiend. Nor was this all the sanguine and impetuous mind of Alintas beheld in the power of Apicides, the means of divulging to the deluded people the juggling mysteries of the irocular Isis. He thought heaven had sent this instrument of his design in order to disabuse the eyes of the crowd and prepare the way, perchance, for the conversion of a whole city. He did not hesitate, then, to appeal to all the new kindled enthusiasm of Apicides, to arouse his courage and to stimulate his zeal. They met, according to previous agreement, the evening after the baptism of Apicides, in the grove of Cyberly, which we have before described. At the next solemn consultation of the oracle, said Alintas, as he proceeded in the warmth of his address, advance yourself to the railing, proclaim aloud to the people the deception they endure, invite them to enter, to be themselves the witness of the gross but artful mechanism of imposture thou hast described to me. Fear not, the Lord who protected Daniel shall protect thee. We, the community of Christians, will be amongst the crowd. We will urge on the shrinking, and in the first flush of the popular indignation and shame, I myself, upon those very altars, will plant the palm branch typical of the gospel, and to my tongue shall descend the rushing spirit of the living God. Heated and excited as he was, this suggestion was not unpleasing to Apicides. He was rejoiced at so early an opportunity of distinguishing his faith in his new sect, and to his holier feelings were added those of a vindictive loathing at the imposition he had himself suffered, and a desire to avenge it. In that sanguine and elastic overbound of obstacles, the rashness necessary to all who undertake venturous and lofty actions, neither Alintas nor the proselyte perceived the impediments to the success of their scheme, which might be found in the reverent superstition of the people themselves. He would probably be loathed before the sacred altars of the great Egyptian goddess, to believe even the testimony of her priest against her power. Apicides then assented to this proposal with a readiness which delighted Alintas. They parted with the understanding that Alintas should confer with the more important of his Christian brethren on his great enterprise, should receive their advice and their assurances of the support on the eventful day. It so chanced that one of the festivals of Isis was to be held on the second day after this conference. The festival proffered a ready occasion for the design. They appointed to meet once more on the next evening at the same spot, and in that meeting were finally to be settled the order and details of the disclosure for the following day. It happened that the later part of this conference had been held near the sassalum, or small chapel, which I have described in the early part of this work, and so soon as the forms of the Christian and the priest had disappeared from the grove, a dark and ungainly figure emerged from behind the chapel. I have tracked you with some effect, my brother Flamin, soliloquies the eavesdropper. You, the priest of Isis, have not for mere idle discussion conferred with this gloomy Christian. Alas, that I could not hear all your precious plots. Enough, I find at least that you meditate revealing the sacred mysteries, and that to-morrow you meet again at this place to plan the how and the when. May Osiris sharpen my ears then, to detect the whole of your unheard of audacity. When I have learned more, I must confer at once with our bases. We will frustrate you, my friends, deep as you think yourselves. At present my breast is a locked treasury of your secret. Thus muttering, Calanus, for it was he, wrapped his robe around him, and strode thoughtfully homeward. CHAPTER II. OF LAST DAYS OF POMPEI. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Blashford. LAST DAYS OF POMPEI by Edward G. Bulwiliton. Book IV. CHAPTER II.  It was then that the day for Diomed's banquet to the most select of his friends, the graceful Glaucus, the beautiful Ioni, the official panzer, the high-born Claudius, the immortal Fulveus, the exquisite Lepides, the Epicurean Salist, were not the only honours of his festival. He expected also an invalid senator from Rome, a man of considerable repute and favour at court, and a great warrior from Herculaneum, who had fought with Titus against the Jews, and having enriched himself prodigiously in the wars, was always told by his friends that his country was eternally indebted to his disinterested exertions. The party, however, extended to a yet greater number, for although critically speaking it was at one time thought inelegant among the Romans to entertain less than three, or more than nine, at their banquets, yet this rule was easily disregarded by the ostentatious, and we are told, indeed, in history, that one of the most splendid of these entertainers usually feasted a select party of three hundred. Diomed, however, more modest, contented himself with doubling the number of the muses, his party consisted of eighteen, no unfashionable number in the present day. It was the morning of Diomed's banquet, and Diomed himself, though he greatly affected the gentleman and the scholar, retained enough of his mercantile experience to know that a master's eye makes a ready servant.  He did not disdain even a visit to that sacred apartment in which the priests of the festival prepare their offerings. On entering the kitchen, his ears were agreeably stunned by the noise of dishes and pans, of oaths and commands. Small as this indispensable chamber seems to have been in all the houses of Pompeii, it was, nevertheless, usually fitted up with all that amazing variety of stoves and shapes, stew-pans and saucepans, cutters and moulds, without which a cook of spirit, no matter whether he be an ancient or a modern, declares it utterly impossible that he can give you anything to eat. And as fuel was then, as now, dear and scarce in those regions, great seems to have been the dexterity exercised in preparing as many things as possible with as little fire. An admirable contrivance of this nature may be still seen in the Neapolitan Museum, these apportable kitchen about the size of a folio-volume containing stoves for four dishes and an apparatus for heating water or other beverages. Across the small kitchen flitted many forms, which the quick eye of the master did not recognise. Oh, oh, grumbled he to himself, that cursed Congrio hath invited a whole legion of cooks to assist him. They won't serve for nothing, and this is another item in the total of my day's expenses. By Bacchus, thrice lucky shall I be if the slaves do not help themselves to some of the drinking vessels. Ready alas are their hands, capacious are their tunics, me miserum. The cooks, however, worked on, seemingly heedless of the apparition of Diomed. Oh, Euclio, your eggpan, what is this the largest? It only holds thirty-three eggs. In the houses I usually serve, the smallest eggpan holds fifty, if need be. The unconscionable rogue thought Diomed. He talks of eggs as if they were assessed at a hundred. By Mercury cried a pert little culinary disciple, scarce in his novitiates. Whoever saw such antique sweat-meat-shapes as these, it is impossible to do credit to one's art with such rude materials. Why, Salastre's commonest sweet-meat-shape represents the whole siege of Troy, Hector and Paris, and Helen, with little astianics and the wooden horse into the bargain. Silence fool said Congrio, the cook of the house, who seemed to leave the chief part of the battle to his allies. My master Diomed is not one of those expensive good-for-naughts who must have the last fashion cost what it will. Thou liest base-slave cried Diomed in a great passion, and thou costest me already enough to have ruined Lecullus himself. Come out of thy den, I want to talk to thee. The slave, with a sly wink at his confederates, obeyed the command. Man of three letters, said Diomed, with his face of solemn anger. How didst thou dare to invite all those rascals into my house? I see thief written in every line of their faces. Yet I assure you, master, that they are men of most respectable character, the best cooks of their place. It is a great favour to get them, but for my sake. Thy sake, unhappy Congrio, interrupted Diomed, and by what perloined moneys of mine, by what reserved filchings from marketing, by what goodly meats converted into grease and sold in the suburbs, by what false charges for bronzes marred and earthenware broken, hast thou been enabled to make them serve thee for thy sake? They, master, do not impeach my honesty. May the gods desert me, if—swear not again, interrupted the caloric Diomed, for then the gods will smite thee for a perjurer, and I shall lose my cook on the eve of dinner. But enough of this at present, keep a sharp eye on thy ill-favoured assistance, and tell me no tales to-morrow of vases broken and cups miraculously vanished, or thy whole back shall be one pain. And, hark thee, thou knowest thou hast made me pay for those frigid and attachens enough, by Hercules, to have feasted a sober man for a year together, see that they be not one iota overroasted. The last time, O Congrio, that I gave a banquet to my friends, when thy vanity did so boldly undertake the becoming appearance of a chameleon crane, thou knowest it came up like a stone from Aetna, as if all the fires of flea-jethon had been scorching out its juices. Be modest this time, Congrio, wary and modest. Modesty is the nurse of great actions, and in all other things, as in this, if thou wilt not spare thy master's purse, at least consult thy master's glory. There shall not be such a coena seen at Pompey since the days of Hercules. Softly, softly, thy cursed boasting again, but I say, Congrio, yon homunculis, yon pygmia salent of my cranes, yon pertonged neophyte of the kitchen, was there ought but insolence on his tongue when he maligned the comeliness of my sweet-meat-shapes, I would not be out of the fashion, Congrio. It is but the custom of us cooks, replied Congrio gravely, to undervalue our tools in order to increase the effect of our art. The sweet-meat-shape is a fair shape and a lovely, but I would recommend my master, at the first occasion, to purchase some new ones of a—that will suffice, exclaimed Diomed, who seemed resolved never to allow his slave to finish his sentences. Now, resume thy charge, shine, eclipse thyself, let men envy Diomed his cook, let the slaves of Pompey style thee, Congrio, the great, go, yet stay, thou hast not spent all the moneys I gave thee for the marketing? All, alas, the nightingale's tongues and the Roman tomacula and the oysters from Britain, and sundry other things, too numerous now to recite, are yet left unpaid for. But what matter, every one trusts the archimagerous of Diomed the wealthy. Oh, unconscionable prodigal, what waste, what profusion, I am ruined, but go, hasten, inspect, taste, perform, surpass thyself, let the Roman senator not despise the poor Pompeian, a way-slave, and remember, the Phrygian atigens. The chief disappeared within his natural domain, and Diomed rolled back his portly presence to the more courtly chambers. All was to his liking, the flowers were fresh, the fountains played briskly, the mosaic pavements were as smooth as mirrors. Whereas my daughter Julia, he asked. At the bath. Ah, that reminds me, time wanes, and I must bathe also. Our story returns to apesities. On awaking that day, from the broken and feverish sleep which had followed his adoption of a faith so strikingly and sternly at variance, with that in which his youth had been nurtured, the young priest could scarcely imagine that he was not yet in a dream. He had crossed the fatal river, the past was henceforth to have no sympathy with the future, the two worlds were distinct and separate, that which had been, from that which was to be.  If frustrated in his daring attempt, what penalties might he not incur for an offence hitherto unheard of, for which no specific law derived from experience was prepared, and which, for that very reason, precedence dragged from the sharpest armory of obsolete and inapplicable legislation would probably be distorted to meet. His friends, the sister of his youth, could he expect justice, though he might receive compassion from them? This brave and heroic act would by their heathen eyes be regarded, perhaps, as a heinous apostasy, at the best as a pitiable madness. He dared he renounced everything in this world, in the hope of securing that eternity in the next which had so suddenly been revealed to him, while these thoughts on the one hand invaded his breast, on the other hand his pride, his courage, and his virtue mingled with reminiscences of revenge for deceit, of indignant disgust at fraud, conspired to raise and to support him. The conflict was sharp and keen, but his new feelings triumphed over his old, and a mighty argument in favour of wrestling with the sanctities of old opinions and hereditary forms might be found in the conquest over both, achieved by that humble priest. Had the early Christians been more controlled by the solemn plausibilities of custom, less of Democrats in the pure and lofty acceptation of that perverted word, Christianity would have perished in its cradle. As each priest in succession slept several nights together in the chambers of the temple, the term imposed on the Peasities was not yet completed, and when he had risen from his couch, attired himself, as usual, in his robes, and left his narrow chamber, he found himself before the altars of the temple. In the exhaustion of his later motions he had slept far into the morning, and the vertical sun already poured its fervid beams over the sacred place. Salve, a Peasities, said a voice whose natural asperity was smoothed by long artifice into an almost displeasing softness of tone. Thou art later broad, as the Goddess revealed herself to thee in visions. Could she reveal her true self to the people, Calanus, how senseless would be these altars? That, replied Calanus, may possibly be true, but the deity is wise enough to hold commune with none but priests. A time may come when she will be unveiled without her own acquiescence. It is not likely, she has triumphed for countless ages, and that which has so long stood the test of time rarely succumbs to the lust of novelty, but Hark ye young brother, these sayings are indiscreet. It is not for thee to silence them, replied a Peasities, haughtily. So hot, yet I will not quarrel with thee. Why, my a Peasities, has not the Egyptian convinced thee of the necessity of our dwelling together in unity? Has he not convinced thee of the wisdom of deluding the people and enjoying ourselves? If not, O brother, he is not that great magician he is esteemed. Thou, then, hast shared his lessons, said a Peasities, with a hollow smile. Aye, but I stood less in need of them than thou. Nature had already gifted me with the love of pleasure and the desire of gain and power. Long is the way that leads the voluptuary to the severities of life, but it is only one step from pleasant sin to sheltering hypocrisy. Beware the vengeance of the goddess, if the shortness of that step be disclosed. Beware thou, the hour when the tomb shall be rent and the rottenness exposed, returned a Peasities solemnly. Vale! With these words he left the flamin' to his meditations. When he got a few paces from the temple he turned to look back. Kelanus had already disappeared in the entry-room of the priests, for it now approached the hour of that repast, which, called Prandium by the ancients, answers in point of date to the breakfast of the moderns. The white and graceful fain gleamed brightly in the sun, upon the altars before it rose the incense and bloomed the garlands. The priest gazed long and wistfully upon the scene. It was the last time that it was ever beheld by him. He then turned and pursued his way slowly towards the house of Ioni, for before possibly the last tie that united them was cut in twain, before the uncertain peril of the next day was incurred, he was anxious to see his last surviving relative, his fondest as his earliest friend. He arrived at her house and found her in the garden with Nydia. This is kind, a Peasities said Ioni joyfully, and how eagerly have I wished to see thee. What thanks do I not owe thee? How cherlish has thou been to answer none of my letters, to abstain from coming hither to receive the expressions of my gratitude. Oh! thou hast assisted to preserve thy sister from dishonour. What, what can she say to thank thee, now thou art come at last? My sweet Ioni, thou o'est me no gratitude, for thy cause was mine. Let us avoid that subject. Let us recur not to that impious man, how hateful to both of us. I may have a speedy opportunity to teach the world the nature of his pretended wisdom and hypocritical severity.  I am worried with the heat of the sun. Let us sit in yonder shade, and for a little while longer be to each other what we have been. Beneath a wide plain tree, with their sisters and the Arbutus clustering round them, the living fountain before, the greens would beneath their feet, the gay cicada, once so dear to Athens, rising merrily ever and anon amidst the grass, the butterfly, beautiful emblem of the soul, dedicated to Psyche, and which has continued to furnish illustrations to the Christian bard, rich in the glowing colours caught from Sicilian skies, hovering about the sunny flowers, itself like a winged flower. In this spot, and this scene, the brother and the sister sat together for the last time on earth. You may tread now on the same place, but the garden is no more, the columns are shattered, the fountain has ceased to play. Let the traveller search amongst the ruins of Pompeii for the house of Ioni. Its remains are yet visible, but I will not betray them to the gaze of commonplace tourists. He who is more sensitive than the herd will discover them easily, when he has done so, let him keep the secret. They sat down, and Nidia, glad to be alone, retired to the farther end of the garden. Ioni, my sister, said the young convert, place your hand upon my brow, let me feel your cool touch. Speak to me, too, for your gentle voice is like a breeze that hath freshness as well as music. Speak to me, but forbear to bless me, utter not one word of those forms of speech which our childhood was taught to consider sacred. Alas! and what, then, shall I say? Our language of affection is so waven with that of worship, that the words grow chilled and try to if I banish from them allusion to our gods. My gods, murmured appeasities, with a shudder, thou slightest my request already. Shall I speak, then, to the only of Isis? The evil spirit? No, rather be done for ever, unless at least thou canst, but away, away this talk. Not now will we dispute and cavill. Not now will we judge harshly of each other. Thou, regarding me as an apostate, and I, all sorrow and shame for thee as an idolator, know, my sister, let us avoid such topics and such thoughts. In thy sweet presence a calm falls over my spirit, for a little while I forget, as I thus lay my temples on thy bosom, as I thus feel thy gentle arm embrace me, I think that we are children once more, and that the heaven smiles equally upon both. For, oh, if hereafter I escape, no matter what peril, and it be permitted me to address thee on one sacred and awful subject, should I find thine ear closed, and thy heart hardened, what hope for myself could countervail the despair for thee? In thee, my sister, I behold a likeness made beautiful, made noble, of myself. Shall the mirror live forever, and the form itself be broken as the pot is clay? Ah, no, no, thou wilt listen to me yet. Thus thou remember how we went into the fields by bay, hand in hand together, to pluck the flowers of spring? Even so, hand in hand, shall we enter the eternal garden, and crown ourselves with imperishable as vodal. Wondering and bewildered by words she could not comprehend, but excited even to tears by the plaintiveness of their tone, I only listened to these outpourings of a full and depressed heart. In truth, apesides himself was softened much beyond his ordinary mood, which to outward seeming was usually either sullen or impetuous. For the noblest desires are of a jealous nature, they engross, they absorb the soul, and often leave their splenetic humours stagnant and unheeded at the surface. Unheeding the petty things around us, we are deemed morose, impatient at earthly interruption to the divine dreams, we are thought irritable and cherlish. For as there is no chimera veiner than the hope that one human heart shall find sympathy in another, so none ever interrupts us with justice, and none, no, not our nearest and our dearest ties, forbear with us in mercy. When we are dead and repentance comes too late, both friend and foe may wonder to think how little there was in us to forgive. I will talk to thee then of our early years, said Ioni. Shall yon blind girl sing to thee of the days of childhood? Her voice is sweet and musical, and she hath a song on that theme which contains none of those illusions it pains thee to hear. Does thou remember the words, my sister? asked a piece of ease. Me thinks, yes, for the tune, which is simple, fixed them on my memory. Sing to me then thyself, my ear is not in unison with unfamiliar voices, and thine Ioni, full of household associations, has ever been to me more sweet than all the hailing melodies of Lycea or of Crete, sing to me. Ioni beckoned to a slave that stood in the portico, and sending for her loot, sang when it arrived, to a tender and simple air, the following verses. Regrets for childhood It is not that our earlier heaven escapes its April showers, or that to childhood's heart is given, no snake amidst the flowers, are twined with grief, each brightest leaf, that's wreathed us by the hours. Young though we be, the past may sting, the present feed its sorrow, but hope shines bright on everything that waits us with the morrow, like sunlight glades, the dimmest shades some rosy beam can borrow. It is not that our later years of cares are woven wholly, but smiles less swiftly chase the tears, and wounds are healed more slowly, and memories vow to lost ones now makes joys too bright unholy, and ever fled the iris bow that smiled when clouds were o'er us, if storms should burst and cheer we go, a dreary a waste before us, and with the toys of childish joys we've broke the staff that bore us. Wisely and delicately had I only chosen that song, sad though its berth unseemed, for when we are deeply mournful, discordant above all others is the voice of mirth, the fittest spell is that borrowed from melancholy itself, for dark thoughts can be softened down when they cannot be brightened, and so they lose the precise and rigid outline of their truth, and their colours melt into the ideal. As the leech applies in remedy to the internal saw some outward irritation, which by a gentler wound draws away the venom of that which is more deadly, thus in the rankling festers of the mind our art is to divert to a milder sadness on the surface the pain that north at the core, and so with appeasities yielding to the influence of the silver voice that reminded him of the past, and told but of half the sorrow born to the present he forgot his more immediate and fiery sources of anxious thoughts. He spent hours in making Ioni alternately sing to and converse with him, and when he rose to leave her it was with a calm and lulled mind. Ioni said he as he pressed her hand, should you hear my name blackened and maligned will you credit the aspersion? Never, my brother, never. Dost thou not imagine, according to thy belief, that the evil doer is punished hereafter, and the good rewarded? Can you doubt it?  He who doth so is the equal of the gods, and thou believest that, according to the purity and courage with which he thus acts, shall be his portion of bliss beyond the grave. So we are taught to hope. Kiss me, my sister, one question more. Thou art to be wedded to Glaucus, for chance that marriage may separate us more hopelessly, but not of this speak I now. Thou art to be married to Glaucus. Dost thou love him? Nay, my sister, answer me by words. Yes, murmur Ioni blushing. Dost thou feel that, for his sake, thou couldst renounce pride, brave dishonour, and incur death? I have heard that when women really love, it is to that excess. My brother, all this I could do for Glaucus, and feel that it were not a sacrifice. There is no sacrifice to those who love, in what is born for the one we love. Enough! Shall women feel thus for man, and man feel lestivation to his God? He spoke no more. His whole countenance seemed instinct and inspired with a divine life. His chest swelled proudly. His eyes glowed. On his forehead was writ the majesty of a man who can dare to be noble. He turned to meet the eyes of Ioni, earnest, wistful, fearful. He kissed her fondly, strained her warmly to his breast, and in a moment more he had left the house. Long did Ioni remain in the same place, mute and thoughtful. The maidens again and again came to warn her of the deepening noon, and her engagement to Diomed's banquet. At length she worked from her reverie, and prepared, not with the pride of beauty, but listless and melancholy, for the festival. One thought alone reconciled her to the promised visit, she should meet Glaucus. She could confide to him her alarm and uneasiness for her brother. Glaucus was slowly strolling towards the house of Diomed. Despite the habits of his life, Salastre was not devoid of many estimable qualities. He would have been an active friend, a useful citizen, in short an excellent man, if he had not taken it into his head to be a philosopher. Brought up in the schools in which Roman plagiarism worshipped the echo of Grecian wisdom, he had imbued himself with those doctrines by which the later Epicureans corrupted the simple maxims of their great master. He gave himself altogether up to pleasure, and imagined there was no sage like a boon companion. Still, however, he had a considerable degree of learning, wit and good nature, and the hearty frankness of his very vices seemed like virtue itself beside the utter corruption of Claudius, and the prostrate effeminacy of Lepidus, and therefore Glaucus liked him the best of his companions, and he, in turn, appreciating the noble qualities of the Athenian, loved him almost as much as a cold murena, or a bowl of the best for learning. This is a vulgar old fellow this Diomed, said Salast, but he has some good qualities in his cellar, and some charming ones in his daughter. True, Glaucus, but you are not much moved by them, me thinks. I fancy Claudius is desirous to be your successor. He is welcome. At the banquet of Julia's beauty, no guest, be sure, is considered a musker. You are severe, but she has indeed something of the Corinthian about her. They will be well matched, after all. What good-natured fellows we are to associate with that gambling good-for-naught. Pleasure unites strange varieties, answered Glaucus. He amuses me, and flatters, but then he pays himself well. He powders his praise with gold dust. You often hint that he plays unfairly. Think you so, really? My dear Glaucus, a Roman noble has his dignity to keep up. Dignity is very expensive.  Ha-ha! Well, of late I have renounced the dice. Ah, Salist, when I am wedded to Ioni, I trust I may yet redeem a youth of follies. We are both born for better things than those in which we sympathize now, born to render our worship in nobler temples than the sty of Epicurus. Alas! returned Salist in rather a melancholy tone. What do we know more than this? Life is short. Be on the grave all is dark. There is no wisdom like that which says, enjoy. By Bacchus I doubt sometimes if we do enjoy the utmost of which life is capable. I am a moderate man, returned Salist, and do not ask the utmost. We are like malefactors, and intoxicate ourselves with wine and myrrh as we stand on the brink of death, but if we did not do so, the abyss would look very disagreeable. I own that I was inclined to be gloomy until I took so heartily to drinking. That is a new life, my Glaucus. Yes, but it brings us next morning to a new death. Why, the next morning is unpleasant I own, but then if it were not so, one would never be inclined to read. I study B-times, because by the gods I am generally unfit for anything else till noon. Fie, Scytheon! Pshar the fate of Penteas to him who denies Bacchus!  Perhaps I should not if it were in the middle of supper, but in truth we Italians are fearfully selfish. So are all men who are not free, said Glaucus, with a sigh? Freedom alone makes men sacrifice to each other. Freedom, then, must be a very fatiguing thing to an Epicurean, answered Salist, but here we are at our hosts. As Diomed's villa is one of the most considerable in point of size of any yet discovered at Pompeii, and is, moreover, built much according to the specific instructions for a suburban villa laid down by the Roman architect, it may not be uninteresting briefly to describe the plan of the apartments through which our visitors passed. They entered, then, by the same small vestibule at which we have before been presented to the aged Medan, and passed at once into a colonnade, technically termed the Peristyle, for the main difference between the suburban villa and the town mansion consisted in placing, in the first, the said colonnade, in exactly the same place as that which in the town mansion was occupied by the Atrium. In the centre of the Peristyle was an open court which contained the Impluvium. From this Peristyle descended a staircase to the offices, another narrow passage on the opposite side communicated with a garden. Various small apartments surrounded the colonnade, appropriated probably to country visitors. Another door to the left on entering communicated with a small triangular portico, which belonged to the Bards, and behind was the wardrobe in which were kept the vests of the holiday suits of the slaves, and perhaps of the master. Seventeen centuries afterwards were found those relics of ancient finery calcined and crumbling, kept longer alas than their thrifty lord foresaw. Return we to the Peristyle, and endeavor now to present to the reader a coup d'oeuvre of the whole suite of apartments which immediately stretched before the steps of the visitors. Let him then first imagine the columns of the portico, hung with festoons of flowers, the columns themselves in the lower part painted red, and the walls around glowing with various frescoes. Then, looking beyond a curtain, three parts drawn aside, the eye caught the tablinum, or saloon, which was closed at will by glazed doors, now slid back into the walls. On either side of this tablinum were small rooms, one of which was a kind of cabinet of gems, and these apartments, as well as the tablinum, communicated with a long gallery, which opened at either end upon terraces, and between the terraces, and communicating with the central part of the gallery, was a hall, in which the banquet was that day prepared. All these apartments, though almost on a level with the street, were one story above the garden, and the terraces communicating with the gallery were continued into corridors, raised above the pillars, which, to the right and left, skirted the garden below. Beneath, and on a level with the garden, ran the apartments we have already described as chiefly appropriated to Julia. In the gallery then, just mentioned, Diomed received his guests. The merchant affected greatly the man of letters, and therefore he also affected a passion for everything Greek, he paid particular attention to Glaucus.  The hall in which we shall sup is borrowed from the Greeks. It is an aecus size-a-chennae, noble salist, they have not, I am told, this sort of apartment in Rome. Oh! replied Salist, with a half smile. You Pompeians combine all that is most eligible in Greece and in Rome. May you, Diomed, combine the vines as well as the architecture. You shall see, you shall see, my Salist, replied the merchant. We have a taste at Pompeii, and we have also money. They are two excellent things, replied Salist, but behold, the Lady Julia. The main difference, as I have before remarked, in the manner of life observed among the Athenians and Romans, was that with the first, the modest woman rarely or never took part in entertainments, with the latter, they were the common ornaments of the banquet, but when they were present at the feast it usually terminated at an early hour. Magnificently robed in white, interwoven with pearls and threads of gold, the handsome Julia entered the apartment. Scarcely had she received the salutation of the two guests, Air Pansa and his wife, Lapidus, Clodius, and the Roman senator, entered almost simultaneously. Then came the widow Fulvia, then the poet Fulvius, like to the widow in name, if in nothing else. The warrior from Herculaneum, accompanied by his umbra, next stalked in, afterwards the less eminent of the guests. Ioni yet tarried. It was the mode among the courteous ancients to flatter whenever it was in their power. Accordingly it was a sign of ill breeding to seat themselves immediately on entering the house of their host. After performing the salutation, which was usually accomplished by the same cordial shake of the right hand which we ourselves retain, and sometimes by the yet more familiar embrace, they spent several minutes in surveying the apartments and admiring the bronzes, the pictures, or the furniture with which it was adorned, a mode very impolite according to our refined English notions, which place good breeding in indifference. We would not for the world express much admiration of another man's house, for fear it should be thought we had never seen anything so fine before. A beautiful statue this of Bacchus, said the Roman senator. A mere trifle replied Diomed. Watch-harming paintings, said Fulvia. Mere trifles answered the owner. Exquisite candelabra cried the warrior. Exquisite echoed his umbra. Trifles, trifles reiterated the merchant. Meanwhile Glaucas found himself by one of the windows of the gallery, which communicated with the terraces and the fair Julia by his side. Is it an Athenian virtue Glaucas, said the merchant's daughter, to shun those whom we once sought? Fair Julia, no. Yet me thinks it is one of the qualities of Glaucas. Glaucas never shuns a friend, replied the Greek, with some emphasis on the last word. May Julia rank among the number of his friends? It would be an honour to the emperor to find a friend in one so lovely. You evade my question, returned the enamored Julia, but tell me, is it true that you admire the neapolitan Ioni? Does not beauty constrain our admiration? Ah, subtle Greek, still do you fly the meaning of my words, but say, shall Julia be indeed your friend? If she will so favour me, blessed be the gods, the day in which I am thus honoured shall be ever marked in white.  You are impatient to join Ioni. For at that moment Ioni had entered, and Glaucas had indeed betrayed the emotion noticed by the jealous beauty. Can admiration to one woman make me unworthy the friendship of another? Sanction not so, O Julia, the libils of the poets on your sex. Well, you are right, or I will learn to think so. Glaucas, yet one moment, you are to wed Ioni, is it not so? If the fates permit, such is my blessed hope. Except then, from me, in token of our new friendship, a present for your bride. Nay, it is the custom of friends, you know, always to present to bride and bridegroom some such little marks of their esteem and favouring wishes. Julia, I cannot refuse any token of friendship from one like you, I will accept the gift as an omen from fortune herself. Then, after the feast, when the guests retire, you will descend with me to my apartment, and receive it from my hands. Remember, said Julia, as she joined the wife of Panza, and left Glaucas to seek Ioni. The widow Fulvia, and the spouse of the ideal, were engaged in high and grave discussion. O Fulvia, I assure you that the last account from Rome declares that the frisling mode of dressing the hair is growing antiquated. They only now wear it built up in a tower, like Julius, or arranged as a helmet, the gallery and fashion, like mine, you see, it has a fine effect, I think. I assure you, Vespius—Vespius was the name of the Herculaneum hero, admires it greatly—and nobody wears the hair like Yon Neapolitan in the Greek way. What parted in front were the not behind?  It reminds one of the statue of Diana, yet this Ioni is handsome, eh? So the men say, but then she is rich, she is to marry the Athenian, I wish her joy. He will not be long faithful, I suspect. Those foreigners are very faithless. Oh, Julia, said Fulvia, as the merchant's daughter joined them. Have you seen the tiger yet? No. Why, all the ladies have been to see him. He is so handsome. I hope we shall find some criminal or other for him and the lion, replied Julia. Your husband, turning to Panza's wife, is not so active as he should be in this matter. Why, really, the laws are too mild, replied the dame of the helmet. There are so few offenses to which the punishment of the arena can be awarded, and then, too, the gladiators are growing effeminate. The stoutest bestiari declare they are willing enough to fight a boar or a bull, but as for a lion or a tiger, they think they gain too much in earnest. They are worthy of a mitre, replied Julia, in disdain. Oh, have you seen the new house of Fulvia's, the dear poet, said Panza's wife. No, is it handsome? Very, such good taste. But they say, my dear, that he has such improper pictures. He won't show them to the women. How ill-bred! Those poets are always odd, said the widow. But he is an interesting man. What pretty verses he writes. We improve very much in poetry. It is impossible to read the old stuff now. I declare I am of your opinion, returned the lady of the helmet. There is so much more force and energy in the modern school. The warrior sauntered up to the ladies. It reconciles me to peace, said he, when I see such faces. Oh, you heroes are ever flatterers, returned Fulvia, hastening to appropriate the compliments specially to herself. By this chain which I received from the emperor's own hand, replied the warrior, playing with a short chain which hung around the neck like a collar, instead of descending to the breast, according to the fashion of the peaceful. By this chain you wrong me. I am a blunt man. A soldier should be so. How do you find the ladies of Pompey generally, said Julia? By Venus, most beautiful. They favour me a little. It is true. And that inclines my eyes to double their charms. We love a warrior, said the wife of Panza. I see it, by Hercules. It is even disagreeable to be too celebrated in these cities. At Herculaneum they climbed the roof of my atrium to catch a glimpse of me through the Compluvium. The admiration of one's citizens is pleasant at first, but burdensome afterwards. True, true, O Vespius cried the poet joining the group. I find it so myself. You, said the stately warrior, scanning the small form of the poet with ineffable disdain. In what legion have you served? You may see my spoils, my ex-UVA. In the forum itself returned the poet with a significant glance at the women. I have been among the tent companions, the contubernales, of the great Mantua and himself. I know no general from Mantua, said the warrior gravely. What campaign have you served? That of Helicon. I never heard of it. Nay, Vespius. He does but joke, said Julia, laughing. Joke? By Mars. Am I a man to be joked? Yes.  Know then, O Vespius, that I am the poet, Volvious. It is I who make warriors immortal. The gods forbid, whispered Salus to Julia, if Vespius were made immortal, what a specimen of tyosin braggadocio would be transmitted to posterity. The soldier looked puzzled. When, to the infinite relief of himself and his companions, the signal for the feast was given. As we have already witnessed at the house of Glaucas, the ordinary routine of a Pompeian entertainment, the reader is spared any second detail of the courses, and the manner in which they were introduced. Diomed, who was rather ceremonious, had appointed a nomenclator, or a pointer of places, to each guest. The reader understands that the festive board was composed of three tables, one at the centre, and one at each wing. It was only at the outer side of these tables that the guests reclined, the inner space was left untenanted, for the greater convenience of the waiters or ministry. The extreme corner of one of the wings was appropriated to Julia as the Lady of the Feast. That next her to Diomed. At one corner of the centre table was placed the ideal, at the opposite corner the Roman senator, these were the posts of honour. The other guests were arranged so that the young, gentlemen or lady, should sit next to each other, and the more advanced in years be similarly matched. An agreeable provision enough, but one which must often have offended those who wished to be thought still young. The chair of Ioni was next to the couch of Glaucas. The seats were veneered with tortoise shell, and covered with quilts, stuffed with feathers, and ornamented with costly embroideries. The modern ornaments of a pernée or plateau were supplied by images of the gods wrought in bronze, ivory, and silver. The sacred salt cellar and the familiar laryes were not forgotten. Over the table and the seats a rich canopy was suspended from the ceiling. At each corner of the table were lofty candelabra. For though it was early noon the room was darkened, while from tripods placed in different parts of the room distilled the odour of myrrh and frankincense, and upon the abacus or sideboard large vases and various ornaments of silver were arranged, much with the same ostentation, but with more than the same taste that we find displayed at a modern feast. The custom of grace was invariably supplied by that of libations to the gods, and Vesta, as queen of the household gods, usually received first that graceful homage. This ceremony being performed the slaves showered flowers upon the couches and the floor, and crowned each guest with rosy garlands, intricately woven with ribbons, tied by the rind of the linden tree, and each intermingled with the ivy and the amethyst, supposed preventives against the effect of wine, the wreaths of the women only were exempted from these leaves, for it was not the fashion for them to drink wine in public. It was then that the President Diomed thought it advisable to institute a basilias, or director of the feast, an important office, sometimes chosen by lot, sometimes as now by the master of the entertainment. Diomed was not a little puzzled as to his election. The invalid senator was too grave and too infirm for the proper fulfilment of his duty. The ideal panzer was adequate enough to the task, but then to choose the next in official rank to the senator was an affront to the senator himself. While deliberating between the merits of the others, he caught the mirthful glance of Salist, and by a sudden inspiration named the jovial epicure to the rank of director, or Arbiter Bibendi. Salist received the appointment with becoming humility. I shall be a merciful king, said he, to those who drink deep, to a recusant, Minos himself shall be less inexorable, beware. The slaves handed round basins of perfumed water, by which levation the feast commenced, and now the table groaned under the initiatory course. The conversation, at first desultery and scattered, allowed Ioni and Glaucus to carry on those sweet whispers which are worth all the eloquence in the world. Julia watched them with flashing eyes. How soon shall her place be mine, thought she. But Claudius, who sat in the center-table, so as to observe well the countenance of Julia, guessed her peak, and resolved to profit by it. He addressed her across the table in set phrases of gallantry, and as he was of high birth and of a showy person, the vain Julia was not so much in love as to be insensible to his attentions. The slaves in the interim were constantly kept upon the alert by the vigilant Salist, who chased one cup by another with a celerity which seemed as if he were resolved upon exhausting those capacious cellars which the reader may yet see beneath the house of Diomed. The worthy merchant began to repent his choice, as Amphora after Amphora was pierced and emptied. The slaves, all under the age of manhood, the youngest being about ten years old, it was they who filled the wine, the eldest some five years older mingled it with water, seemed to share in the zeal of Salist, and the face of Diomed began to glow as he watched the provoking complacency with which they seconded the exertions of the king of the feast. Pardon me, O Senator, said Salist, I see you flinch, your purple hem cannot save you. Drink! By the gods, said the Senator coughing, my lungs are already on fire. You proceed with so miraculous a swiftness that fate in himself was nothing to you. I am in firm, o pleasant Salist, you must exonerate me. Not I, by Vesta, I am an impartial monarch. Drink! The poor Senator, compelled by the laws of the table, was forced to comply. Alas! every cup was bringing him nearer and nearer to the Stygian pool. Gently, gently, my king, grown Diomed, we already begin to—treason, interrupted Salist, no stern brutus here, no interference with royalty. But our female guests, Lovatoeper, did not Ariadne dot upon Bacchus? The feast proceeded, the guests grew more talkative and noisy, the dessert, or last course, was already on the table, and the slaves bore round water with myrrh and hissep for the finishing levation, at the same time a small circular table that had been placed in the space opposite the guests, certainly, and, as by magic, seemed to open in the centre, and cast up a fragrant shower, sprinkling the table and the guests. While, as it ceased, the awning above them was drawn aside, and the guests perceived that a rope had been stretched across the ceiling, and that one of those nimble dancers, for which Pompeii was so celebrated, and whose descendants add so charming a grace to the festivities of Astles, or Voxel, was now treading his airy measures right over their heads. This apparition, removed but by accord from one's perichranium, and indulging the most vehement leaps, apparently with the intention of alighting upon that cerebral region, would probably be regarded with some terror by a party in Mayfair, but our Pompeii and revelers seemed to behold the spectacle with delighted curiosity, and applauded in proportion as the dancer appeared with the most difficulty to miss falling upon the head of whatever guest he particularly selected to dance above. He paid the senator indeed the peculiar compliment of literally falling from the rope, and catching it again with his hand, just as the whole party imagined the skull of the Roman was as much fractured as ever that of the poet whom the eagle took for a tortoise. At length, to the great relief of at least Ioni, who had not much accustomed herself to this entertainment, the dancer suddenly paused as a strain of music was heard from without. He danced again still more wildly, the air changed, the dancer paused again. No, it could not dissolve the charm which was supposed to possess him. He represented one who by a strange disorder is compelled to dance, and whom only a certain air of music can cure. At length the musician seemed to hit on the right tune, the dancer gave one leap, swung himself down from the rope, alighted on the floor, and vanished. One art now yielded to another, and the musicians who were stationed without on the terrace, struck up a soft and mellow air, to which were sung the following words, made almost indistinct by the barrier between and the exceeding loneness of the minstrelsy. Best of music should be low. Hark! Through these flowers our music sends its greeting, to your loved halls where Silas shuns the day, when the young God his Cretan nymph was meeting, he taught Pan's rustic pipe this gliding lay, soft as the juice of wine shed in this banquet hour, the rich libation of sound stream divine, a reverent harp to Aphrodite pour. Wild rings the trump o'er ranks to glory marching, music's sublima bursts for war on meat, but sweet lips murmuring and o' wreaths are arching, find the low whispers like their own most sweet. Steal my lulled music, steal, like woman's half-herd tone, so that who ere shall hear shall think to feel, in thee the voice of lips that love his own. At the end of that song Ioni's cheek blushed more deeply than before, and Glaucas had contrived under cover of the table to steal her hand. It is a pretty song, said Fulvius patronizingly. Ah, if you would oblige us, murmured the wife of Panza. Do you wish Fulvius to sing, asked the king of the feast, who had just called on the assembly to drink the health of the Roman senator, a cup to each letter of his name. Can you ask, said the matron, with a complimentary glance at the poet. Salast snapped his fingers, and whispering the slave who came to learn his orders, the latter disappeared, and returned in a few moments with a small harp in one hand and a branch of myrtle in the other. The slave approached the poet, and with a low reverence presented to him the harp. Alas, I cannot play, said the poet. Then you must sing to the myrtle. It is a Greek fashion. Diomed loves the Greeks. I love the Greeks. You love the Greeks. We all love the Greeks. And between you and me this is not the only thing we have stolen from them. However, I introduce this custom. I, the king, sing, subject, sing. The poet, with a bashful smile, took the myrtle in his hands, and after a short prelude sang as follows, in a pleasant and well-tuned voice. The Coronation of the Loves The merry loves, one holiday, were all at gambles madly, but loves too long can sell them play without behaving sadly. They laughed, they toyed, they romped about, and then for change they all fell out. Fie, fie, how can they quarrel so? My lesbiar are, for shame, love, me thinks to scarce an hour ago, when we did just the same love. The loves, to his thought, were free till then, they had no king or laws, dear, but gods like men should subject be, say, all the ancient sores, dear, and so our crew resolved for quiet to choose a king to curb their riot. A kiss, ah, what a grievous thing, for both me thinks to would be, child, if I should take some prudish king, and cease to be so free, child. Among their toys a casque they found, it was the helm of Ares, with horrent plumes the crest was crowned, it frightened all the lairies. So fine a king was never known, they placed the helmet on the throne. My girl, since Valor wins the world, they chose a mighty master, but thy sweet flag of smiles unfurled would win the world much faster. The casque soon found the loves too wild a troop for him to school them, for warriors know how one such child has eye contrived to fool them. They plagued him so that in despair he took a wife the plague to share. If kings themselves thus find the strife of earth and shared severe girl, why just to halve the ills of life, come take your partner here, girl. Within that room the bird of love, the whole affair had eyed then, the monarch hailed the royal dove, and placed her by his side then, what mirth amidst the loves was seen, long live they cried, our king and queen, our lesbian would that thrones were mine, and crowns to deck that brow love, and yet I know that heart of thine, for me is thrown in now love. The urchins hoped to tease the mate, as they had teased the hero, but when the dove in judgment sate they found her worse than Nero. Each look of round each word allore, the little subjects shook with awe, in thee I find the same deceit too late alas a learner, for wear a mienne more gently sweet, and wear a tyrant sterner. This song, which greatly suited the gay and lively fancy of the Pompeians, was received with considerable applause, and the widow insisted on crowning her namesake with the very branch of myrtle to which he had sung. It was easily twisted into a garland, and the immortal vulveous was crowned amidst the clapping of hands and shouts of Io triumph. The song and the harp now circulated round the party, a new myrtle branch being handed about, stopping at each person who could be prevailed upon to sing. The sun began now to decline, though the revelers, who had worn away several hours, perceived it not in their darkened chamber, and the senator, who was tired, and the warrior, who had to return to Herculaneum, rising to depart, gave the signal for the general dispersion. Tarry yet a moment, my friends, said Diomed, if you will go so soon you must at least take a share in our concluding game. So saying, he motioned to one of the ministry, and whispering him, the slave went out, and presently returned with a small bowl containing various tablets carefully sealed, and apparently exactly similar. Each guest was to purchase one of these at the nominal price of the lowest piece of silver, and the sport of this lottery, which was the favorite diversion of Augustus, who introduced it, consisted in the inequality and sometimes the incongruity of the prizes, the nature and amount of which were specified within the tablets. For instance, the poet, with a wry face, drew one of his own poems, no physician ever less willingly swallowed his own draft. The warrior drew a case of bodkins, which gave rise to certain novel witticisms relative to Hercules and the Dye Staff. The widow Fulvia obtained a large drinking-cup, Julia a gentleman's buckle, and Lapidas a lady's patchbox. The most appropriate lot was drawn by the gambler Claudius, who reddened with anger on being presented to a set of cogged dice. A certain damp was thrown upon the gaiety, which these various lots created, by an accident that was considered ominous. Glaucus drew the most valuable of all the prizes, a small marble statue of fortune, of Grecian workmanship. On handing it to him the slave suffered it to drop, and it broke in pieces. A shiver went round the assembly, and each voice cried spontaneously on the gods to avert the omen. Glaucus alone, though perhaps as superstitious as the rest, affected to be unmoved. Sweet Neapolitan, whispered he tenderly to Ioni, who had turned pale as the broken marble itself, I accept the omen. It signifies that in obtaining thee, fortune can give no more. She breaks her image when she blesses me with thine. In order to divert the impression which this incident had occasioned in an assembly which, considering the civilisation of the guests, would seem miraculously superstitious, if at the present day in a country party we did not often see a lady grow hypochondriacal on leaving a room last of thirteen, Salus now crowning his cup with flowers gave the health of their host. This was followed by a similar compliment to the emperor, and then with a parting cup to Mercury to send them pleasant slumbers, they concluded the entertainment by a last libation, and broke up the party. Carriages and litters were little used in Pompeii, partly owing to the extreme narrowness of the streets, partly to the convenient smallness of the city. Most of the guests replacing their sandals, which they had put off in the banquet room, and enduing their cloaks, left the house on foot attended by their slaves. Meanwhile, having seen Ioni depart, Glaucus turning to the staircase which led down to the rooms of Julia, was conducted by a slave to an apartment in which he found the merchant's daughter already seated. Glaucus said she, looking down, I see that you really love Ioni, she is indeed beautiful. Julia is charming enough to be generous, replied the Greek. Yes, I love Ioni. Amidst all the youth who caught you, may you have one worshipper as sincere. I pray the gods to grant it. See, Glaucus, these pearls are the present I destined to your bride. May Juno give her health to wear them." So saying, she placed a case in his hand, containing a row of pearls of some size and price. It was so much the custom for persons about to be married to receive these gifts, that Glaucus could have little scruple in accepting the necklace, though the gallant and proud Athenian inly resolved to requite the gift by one of thrice its value. Julia, then stopping short his thanks, poured forth some wine into a small bowl. You have drunk many toasts with my father, said she, smiling, one now with me, health and fortune to your bride. She touched the cup with her lips, and then presented it to Glaucus. The customary etiquette required that Glaucus should drain the whole contents, he accordingly did so. Julia, unknowing the deceit which Nidia had practiced upon her, watched him with sparkling eyes, although the witch had told her that the effect might not be immediate, she yet sanguinely trusted to an expeditious operation in favour of her charms. She was disappointed when she found Glaucus coldly replaced the cup, and conversed with her in the same unmoved but gentle tone as before, and though she detained him as long as she decorously could do, no change took place in his manner. But tomorrow thought she, exultingly recovering her disappointment, to-morrow alas for Glaucus. Alas for him indeed. End of Chapter 3 Restless and anxious, Apicides consumed the day in wandering through the most sequestered walks in the vicinity of the city. The sun was slowly setting as he paused beside a lonely part of the sanus, ere yet it wound amidst the evidences of luxury and power. Only through openings in the woods and vines were caught glimpses of the white and gleaming city, in which was heard in the distance no din, no sound, nor busiest hum of men. Amidst the green banks crept the lizard and the grasshopper, and here and there in the break some solitary bird burst into sudden song, as suddenly stifled. There was deep calm around, but not the calm of night, the air still breathed of the freshness and life of day. The grass still moved to the stir of the insect horde, and on the opposite bank the graceful and white cappella passed browsing through the herbage, and paused at the wave to drink. As Apicides stood musingly gazing upon the waters, he heard beside him the low bark of a dog. Be still, poor friend, said a voice at hand. The stranger's step harms not thy master. The convert recognized the voice, and turning, he beheld the old mysterious man whom he had seen in the congregation of the Nazarenes. The old man was sitting upon a fragment of stone covered with ancient mosses. Beside him were his staff and scrip. At his feet lay a small shaggy dog, the companion in how many a pilgrimage perilous and strange. The face of the old man was as barmed to the excited spirit of the near fight. He approached, and, craving his blessing, sat down beside him. Thou art provided us for a journey, father, said he. Will thou leave us yet? My son, replied the old man, the days in store for me on earth are few and scanty. I employ them as becomes me travelling from place to place, comforting those whom God has gathered together in his name, and proclaiming the glory of his son as testified to his servant.  Know, young proselyte, to the true faith that I am he of whom thou readest in the scroll of the apostle. In the far-to-deer, and in the city of name, there dwelt a widow, humble of spirit and sad of heart. For of all the ties of life one son alone was spared to her. And she loved him with a melancholy love, for he was the likeness of the lost. And the son died. The reed on which he leaned was broken. The oil was dried up in the widow's croons. They bore the dead upon his beer, and near the gate of the city where the crowd were gathered, there came a silence over the sounds of woe, for the Son of God was passing by. The mother who followed the beer wept, not noisily, but all who looked upon her saw that her heart was crushed. And the Lord pitied her, and he touched the beer and said, I say unto thee, arise! And the dead man woke and looked upon the face of the Lord. Oh, that calm and solemn brow, that unutterable smile, that care-worn and sorrowful face lighted up with a God's benignity, it chased away the shadows of the grave. I rose. I spoke. I was living, and in my mother's arms. Yes, I am the dead revived. The people shouted. The funeral horns rung forth merrily. There was a cry. God has visited his people. I heard them not. I felt. I saw nothing but the face of the Redeemer. The old man paused, deeply moved, and the youth felt his blood creep, and his hair stir. He was in the presence of one who had known the mystery of death. Till that time renewed the widow's son. I had been as other men, thoughtless, not abandoned, taking no heed but of the things of love and life. Nay, I had inclined to the gloomy face of the earthly Sadducee. But raised from the dead, from awful and desert dreams that these lips never dare reveal, recalled upon earth to testify the powers of heaven, once more mortal, the witness of immortality, I drew a new being from the grave.  Far in the mighty crowd, I saw the light rest and glimmer over the cross. I heard the hooting mob. I cried aloud. I raved, I threatened. None heeded me. I was lost in the whirl and the roar of thousands. But even then, in my agony and his own, me thought the glazing eye of the Son of Man sought me out. His lips smiled as when it conquered death. It hushed me, and I became calm. He who had defied the grave for another, what was the grave to him? The sun shone as slant the pale and powerful features, and then died away. Darkness fell over the earth. How long it endured, I know not. A loud cry came through the gloom, a sharp and bitter cry, and all was silent. But who shall tell the terrors of the night? I walked along the city. The earth reeled to and fro, and the houses trembled to their base. The living had deserted the streets, but not the dead. Through the gloom I saw them glide, the dim and gustly shapes in the seriments of the grave, with horror and woe, and warning on their unmoving lips and lifeless eyes. They swept by me as I passed. They glared upon me. I had been their brother, and they bowed their heads in recognition. They had risen to tell the living that the dead can rise. Again the old man paused, and when he resumed it was in a calm at home. From that night I resigned all earthly thought but that of serving him. A preacher and a pilgrim I have traversed the remotest corners of the earth, proclaiming his divinity, and bringing new converts to his fold. I come as the wind, and as the wind depart, sowing as the wind sows the seeds that enrich the world. Son, on earth we shall meet no more. Forget not this hour. What are the pleasures and the pumps of life? As the lamp shines, so life glitters for an hour. But the soul's light is the star that burns forever in the heart of inimitable space. It was then that their conversation fell upon the general and sublime doctrines of immortality. It soothed and elevated the young mind of the convert, which yet clung to many of the damps and shadows of that cell of faith which he had so lately left. It was the air of heaven, breathing on the prisoner released at last. There was a strong and marked distinction between the Christianity of the old man and that of Olympus. That of the first was more soft, more gentle, more divine. The heroism of Olympus had something in it fierce and intolerant. It was necessary to the part he was destined to play. It had in it more of the courage of the martyr than the charity of the saint. It aroused, it excited, it nerved, rather than subdued and softened. But the whole heart of that divine old man was bathed in love. The smile of the deity had burned away from it the leaven of earthlier and coarser passions, and left to the energy of the hero all the meekness of the child. And now, said he, rising at length, as the sun's last ray died in the west, now in the cool of twilight, I pursue my way towards the Imperial Rome.  But the night is chill for thine age, my father, and the way is long, and the robber haunts it, rest detail to-morrow. Kind, son, what is there in this script attempt the robber? And the night and the solitude these make the ladder round which angels cluster, and beneath which my spirit can dream of God. Oh, none can know what the pilgrim feels, as he walks on his holy course, nursing no fear and dreading no danger. For God is with him. He hears the winds murmur glad tidings, the woods sleep in the shadow of almighty wings, the stars are the scriptures of heaven, the tokens of love, and the witnesses of immortality. Night is the pilgrim's day. With these words the old man pressed a Pisces to his breast, and taking up his staff and script, the dog bounded cheerily before him, and with slow steps and downcast eyes he went his way. The convert stood watching his bended form till the trees shut the last glimpse from his view, and then, as the stars broke forth, he woke from the musings with a start, reminded of his appointment with Olensus. End of Book 4, Chapter 4 Book 4, Chapter 5 of Last Days of Pompeii This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ruth Golding Last Days of Pompeii by Edward G. Bullwerlitton Book 4, Chapter 5 The Filter Its Effect When Glaucus arrived at his own home, he found Nidia seated under the portico of his garden. In fact, she had sought his house in the mere chance that he might return at an early hour. Anxious, fearful, anticipative, she resolved upon seizing the earliest opportunity of availing herself of the love charm, while at the same time she half hoped the opportunity might be deferred. It was then, in that fearful burning mood, her heart beating, her cheek flushing, that Nidia awaited the possibility of Glaucus's return before the night. He crossed the portico just as the first stars began to rise, and the heaven above had assumed its most purple robe. Oh, my child, wait you for me! Nidia have been tending the flowers, and did but linger a little while to rest myself. It has been warm, said Glaucus, placing himself also on one of the seats beneath the colonnade. Very well thou summoned Davos, the wine I have drunk heats me and I long for some cooling drink. Here at once, suddenly and unexpectedly, the very opportunity that Nidia awaited presented itself. Of himself, at his own free choice, he afforded to her that occasion. She breathed quick. I will prepare for you myself, said she, the summer draught that I only loves, of honey and weak wine cooled in snow. Thanks! said the unconscious Glaucus, if I only love it enough, it would be grateful where it poisoned. Nidia frowned and then smiled. She withdrew for a few moments and returned with the cup containing the beverage. Glaucus took it from her hand. What would not Nidia have given then for one hour's prerogative of sight, to have watched her hopes ripening to effect, to have seen the first dawn of the imagined love, to have worshipped with more than Persian adoration the rising of that sun which her credulous soul believed was to break upon her dreary night. Far different, as she stood then and there, were the thoughts, the emotions of the blind girl, from those of the vain Pompeon under a similar suspense. In the last, what poor and frivolous passions had made up the daring whole. What petty peak, what small revenge, what expectation of a paltry triumph, had swelled the attributes of that sentiment she dignified with the name of love. But in the wild heart of the Thessalian all was pure, uncontrolled, unmodified passion, erring, unwomanly, frenzied, but debased by no elements of a more sordid feeling. Filled with love as with life itself, how could she resist the occasion of winning love in return? She leaned for support against the wall, and her face, before so flushed, was now white as snow.  Glaucus had raised the cup to his lips. He had already drained about a fourth of its contents, when his eyes suddenly glancing upon the face of Nidia, he was so forcibly struck by its alteration, by its intense and painful and strange expression, that he paused abruptly, and still holding the cup near his lips, exclaimed, Why, Nidia, Nidia, I say, art thou ill or in pain? Nay, thy face speaks for thee, what ails my poor child? As he spoke he put down the cup, and rose from his seat to approach her, when a sudden pang shot coldly to his heart, and was followed by a wild confused dizzy sensation at the brain. The floor seemed to glide from under him, his feet seemed to move on air. A mighty and unearthly gladness rushed upon his spirit, he felt too buoyant for the earth, he longed for wings. Nay, it seemed in the buoyancy of his new existence, as if he possessed them. He burst involuntarily into a loud and thrilling laugh, he clapped his hands, he bounded aloft, he was as a python-ess inspired. Suddenly as it came, this preternatural transport passed, though only partially away. He now felt his blood rushing loudly and rapidly through his veins. It seemed to swell, to exult, to leap along, as a stream that has burst its bounds and hurries to the ocean. It throbbed in his ear with a mighty sound, he felt it mount to his brow, he felt the veins in his temples stretch and swell, as if they could no longer contain the violent and increasing tide. Then a kind of darkness fell over his eyes, darkness but not entire. For through the dim shade he saw the opposite walls glow out, and the figures painted thereon seemed ghost-like, to creep and glide. What was most strange, he did not feel himself ill. He did not sink or quail beneath the dread frenzy that was gathering over him. The novelty of the feeling seemed bright and vivid. He felt as if a younger health had been infused into his frame. He was gliding on to madness, and he knew it not. Nydia had not answered his first question. She had not been able to reply. His wild and fearful laugh had roused her from her passionate suspense. She could not see his fierce gesture. She could not mark his reeling and unsteady step as he paced unconsciously to and fro, but she heard the words, broken, incoherent, insane, that gushed from his lips. She became terrified and appalled. She hastened to him, feeling with her arms until she touched his knees, and then, falling on the ground, she embraced them, weeping with terror and excitement. Oh, speak to me, speak! You do not hate me. Speak, speak! By the bright goddess, a beautiful land, this cypress. Oh, how they filleth with wine instead of blood! Now they open the veins of the four nyondah to show how they're tied within bubbles and sparkles. Come, ahither, jolly old god, thou ridest on a goat, eh? What long silky hair he has! He is worth all the courses of Parthia. But a word with thee, this wine of thine is too strong for us mortals. Oh, beautiful! The boughs are at rest. The green waves of the forest have caught the Zephyr and drowned him. Not a breath stirs the leaves. And I view the dreams sleeping with folded wings upon the motionless elm. And I look beyond, and I see a blue stream sparkle in the silent noon. A fountain, a fountain springing aloft. Ah, my fount, thou wilt not put out rays of my grecian sun, though thou triest ever so hard with thy nimble and silver arms. And now what form steals yonder through the boughs?  In her hand is a vase upturned, from which she pours pink and tiny shells and sparkling water. Oh, look on your face, man never before saw it like. See, we are alone, only I and she in the wide forest. There is no smile upon her lips. She moves, grave and sweetly sad. Ah, fly, it is a nymph. It is one of the wild Nepai. Whoever sees her becomes mad, fly. See, she discovers me. Oh, Glockus! Glockus, do you not know me? Rave not so wildly, or thou wilt kill me with a word. A new change seemed now to operate upon the jarring and disordered mind of the unfortunate Athenian. He put his hand upon Nidia's silken hair. He smoothed the locks. He looked wistfully upon her face. And then, as in the broken chain of thought, one or two links were yet unsevered, it seemed that her countenance brought its associations of Ioni. And with that remembrance his madness became yet more powerful. And it swayed and tinged by passion as he burst forth. I swear, by Venus, by Diana and by Juno, that though I have neither world on my shoulders as my countryman Hercules, ah, down Rome, whoever was truly great was of Greece. Why, you would be godless if it were not for us. I say, as my countryman Hercules had before me, I would let it fall into chaos for one smile from Ioni. Oh, beautiful, adored, he added, in a voice inexpressibly fond and plentive. Thou lovest me not, thou art unkind to me. The Egyptian hath belied me to thee. Thou knowest not what hours I have spent beneath thy casement. Thou knowest not how I have out watched the stars, thinking thou my sun would rise at last. And thou lovest me not, thou forsakest me. Oh, do not leave me now. I feel that my life will not be long. Let me gaze on thee at least until the last. I am of the bright land of thy fathers. I have charred the heights of Bailly. I have gathered the highest in St. Rose amidst the olive groves of Elyseus. Thou shouldst not desert me, for thy fathers were brothers to my own. And they say this land is lovely, and these climes serene. But I will bear thee with me. Oh, dark form, why rises thou like a cloud between me and mine?  On thy lip is the smile that slays, thy name is Orcus. But on earth men call thee Arbates. See, I know thee, fly dim shadow, thy spells avail not. Clorcus! Clorcus! murmured Nidia, releasing her hold, and falling beneath the excitement of her dismay, remorse, and anguish, insensible on the floor. Who calls? said he in a loud voice. I only. It is she. They have borne her off. We will save her. Where is my stylus? I have it. I come, I only, till I rescue. I come! I come! So saying, the Athenian with one bound passed the portico, he traversed the house, and rushed with swift but vacillating steps, and muttering audibly to himself down the starlit streets. The direful potion burnt like fire in his veins, for its effect was made perhaps still more sudden from the wine he had drunk previously. Used to the excesses of nocturnal revelers, the citizens with smiles and winks gave way to his reeling steps. They naturally imagined him under the influence of the bromion god, not vainly worshipped at Pompeii. But they who looked twice upon his face, started in a nameless fear, and the smile withered from their lips. He passed the more popular streets, and pursuing mechanically the way to Ioni's house, he traversed a more deserted quarter, and entered now the lonely grove of Cybele, in which Epicides had held his interview with the Linthus. END OF BOOK 4 CHAPTER VI A reunion of different actors, streams that float apparently apart, rush into one golf. Impatient to learn whether the fell drug had yet been administered by Julia to his hated rival, and with what effect, Arbasi's resolved, as the evening came on, to seek her house and satisfy his suspense. It was customary, as I have before said, for men at that time to carry abroad with them the tablets and the stylus attached to their girdle, and with the girdle they were put off when at home. In fact, under the appearance of a literary instrument, the Romans carried about with them in that same stylus a very sharp and formidable weapon. It was with his stylus that Cassius stabbed Caesar in the Senate house. Taking then his girdle and his cloak, Arbasi's left his house, supporting his steps, which were still somewhat feeble, though hope and vengeance had conspired greatly with his own medical science, which was profound to restore his natural strength by his long staff, Arbasi's took his way to the villa of Diomed. And beautiful is the moonlight of the south. In those climbs, the night so quickly glides into the day that twilight scarcely makes a bridge between them. One moment of darker purple in the sky, of a thousand rose hues in the water, of shade half-victorious over light, and then burst forth at once the countless stars. The moon is up, night has resumed her reign. Brightly then, and softly bright, fell the moonbeams over the antique grove consecrated to Cybele, the stately trees whose date went beyond tradition cast their long shadows over the soil, while through the openings in their boughs the stars shone still infrequent. The whiteness of the smalsa cellum in the center of the grove, amidst the dark foliage, had in it something abrupt and startling. It recalled at once the purpose to which the wood was consecrated, its holiness and solemnity. With a swift and stealthy pace, Calanus, gliding under the shade of the trees, reached the chapel, and gently putting back the boughs that completely closed around its rear, settled himself in its concealment. A concealment so complete that with the faint in front and the trees behind, that no unsuspicious passenger could possibly have detected him. Again, all was apparently solitary in the grove. A far off you heard faintly the voices of some noisy revelers, or the music that played cheerily to the groups that then, as now in those climates, during the nights of summer, lingered in the streets, and enjoyed in the fresh air and the liquid moonlight a milder day. From the height on which the grove was placed, you saw through the intervals of the trees, the broad and purple sea, rippling in the distance, the white villas of Stabiae in the curving shore, and the dim lectiarian hills mingling with the delicious sky. Presently the tall figure of Arbauses, in his way to the house of Diomed, entered the extreme end of the grove, and at the same instant, Apesides, also bound to his appointment with Olyntus, crossed the Egyptian's path. Hmm! Apesides! said Arbauses, recognizing the priest at a glance. When last we met, you were my foe. I have wished since then to see you, for I would have you still my pupil and my friend. Apesides started at the voice of the Egyptian, and halting abruptly, gazed upon him with a countenance full of contending, bitter, and scornful emotions. Villain and imposter, said he at length, thou hast recovered then from the jaws of the grave. But think not again to weave around me thy guilty meshes. Retiarius, I am armed against thee. Hush, said Arbauses, in a very low voice, but his pride, which in that descent of kings was great, betrayed the wound it received from the insulting epithets of the priest in the quiver of his lip and the flush of his tawny brow. Hush, more low! Thou mayest be overheard, and if other ears than mine had drunk those sounds, why? Dost thou threaten? What if the whole city had heard me? The mains of my ancestors could not have suffered me to forgive thee, but behold and hear me, thou art enraged that I would have offered violence to thy sister. Nay, peace, peace, but one instant I pray thee. Thou art right, it was the frenzy of passion and of jealousy. I have repented bitterly of my madness. Forgive me, I, who never implored pardon of living man, beseech thee now to forgive me. Nay, I will atone the insult. I ask thy sister in marriage. Start not, consider. What is the alliance of young holiday Greek compared to mine? Wealth unbounded, birth that in its far antiquity leaves your Greek and Roman names the things of yesterday. Science, but that thou knowest. Give me thy sister, and my whole life shall atone a moment's error. Egyptian, where even I to consent, my sister loathes the very air thou breathest, but I have my own wrongs to forgive. I may pardon thee that thou hast made me a tool to thy deceits, but never that thou hast seduced me to become the abetter of thy vices, a polluted and a perjured man. Tremble, even now I prepare the hour in which thou and thy false gods shall be unveiled. Thy lewd and surcy in life shall be dragged to-day, thy mumming oracles disclosed. The feign of the idle Isis shall be a byword and a scorn, the name of our bosses a mark for the hisses of execration. Tremble. The flush on the Egyptians brow was succeeded by a livid paleness. He looked behind before, around, to feel assured that none were by, and then he fixed his dark and dilating eye on the priest with such a gaze of wrath and menace that one, perhaps, less supported than Aposidace by a fervent daring of a divine zeal, could not have faced with unflinching look that lowering aspect. As it was, however, the young convert met it unmoved and returned it with an eye of proud defiance. Aposidace, said the Egyptian in a tremulous and inward tone, beware, what is it thou wouldst meditate, speakest thou, reflect, pause before thou replyest, from the hasty influences of wrath, as yet divining no unsettled purpose, or from some fixed design. I speak from the inspiration of the true God, whose servant I now am, answered the Christian boldly, and in the knowledge that by his grace human courage has already fixed the date of thy hypocrisy and thy demon's worship. ere thrice the sun has dawned, thou wilt know all, dark sorcerer, tremble, and farewell. All the fierce and lurid passions which he inherited from his nation and his climb, at all times but ill-concealed beneath the blandness of craft and the coldness of philosophy, were released in the breast of the Egyptian. Rapidly one thought chased another, he saw before him an absolute barrier to even a lawful alliance with Ioni. The fellow champion of Glaucus in the struggle which had baffled his designs, the reviler of his name, the threatened desecrator of the goddess he served while he disbelieved, the avowed and approaching revealer of his own impostors and vices. His love, his repute, nay his very life might be in danger. The day and hour seemed even to have been fixed for some design against him. He knew by the words of the convert that Aposites had adopted the Christian faith. He knew the indomitable zeal which led on the proselytes of that creed. Such was his enemy. He grasped his stylus. That enemy was in his power. They were now before the chapel. One hasty glance once more he cast around. He saw none near. Silence and solitude alike tempted him. Die then in thy rashness, he muttered, away obstacle to my rushing fates. And just as the young Christian had turned to depart, Aposites raised his hand high over the left shoulder of Aposites and plunged his sharp weapon twice into his breast. Aposites fell to the ground, pierced to the heart. He fell mute without even a groan at the very base of the sacred chapel. Aposites gazed upon him for a moment with a fierce animal joy of conquest over a foe. But presently the full sense of the danger to which he was exposed flashed upon him. He wiped his weapon carefully in the long grass and with the very garments of his victim, drew his cloak around him and was about to depart when he saw coming up the path right before him the figure of a young man who steps reeled and vacillated strangely as he advanced. The quiet moonlight streamed full upon his face, which seemed by the whitening ray colorless as marble. The Egyptian recognized the face and form of Glaucus. The unfortunate and benighted Greek was chanting a disconnected and mad song composed from snatches of hymns and sacred odes all jarringly woven together. Ha! thought the Egyptian, instantaneously divining his state and its terrible cause. So then the hell-draft works and destiny have sent the hither to crush two of my foes at once. Quickly, even ere this thought occurred to him, he had withdrawn on one side of the chapel and concealed himself amongst the bows. From that lurking place he watched as a tiger in his lair the advance of his second victim. He noted the wandering and restless fire in the bright and beautiful eyes of the Athenian, the convulsions that distorted his statue-like features and writhed his hueless lip. He saw that the Greek was utterly deprived of reason. Nevertheless, as Glaucus came up to the dead body of Apocides, from which the dark red stream flowed slowly over the grass, so strange and ghastly a spectacle could not fail to arrest him, benighted and airing as was his glimmering sense. He paused, placed his hand to his brow, as if to collect himself, and then saying, What ho! and dimmy and sleepest thou so soundly? What has the moon said to thee? Thou makest me jealous, it is time to wake. He stooped down with the intention of lifting up the body. Forgetting, feeling not his own debility, the Egyptians sprung from his hiding place, and as the Greek bent, struck him forcibly to the ground over the very body of the Christian. Then, raising his powerful voice to its highest pitch, he shouted, Ho, citizens! Oh, help me! Run hither! Hither! A murder! A murder before your very feign! Help! Or the murderer escapes. As he spoke, he placed his foot on the breast of Glaucus, an idol in superfluous precaution. For the potion operating with the Fall, the Greek lay there motionless and insensible, save that now and then his lips gave vent to some vague and raving sounds. As he there stood, awaiting the coming of those his voice still continued to summons, perhaps some remorse, some compunctious visitings, for despite his crimes he was human, hunted the breast of the Egyptian. The defenseless state of Glaucus, his wandering words, his shattered reason, smote him even more than the death of Aposites, and he said half audibly to himself, Poor clay, poor human reason, where is the soul now? I could spare thee, oh my rival, rival never more, but destiny must be obeyed, my safety demands thy sacrifice. With that, as if to drown compunction, he shouted yet more loudly, and drawing from the girdle of Glaucus the stylus it contained, he steeped it in the blood of the murdered man, and laid it beside the corpse. And now, fast and breathless, several of the citizens came thronging to the place, some with torches which the moon rendered unnecessary, but which flared red and tremulously against the darkness of the trees. They surrounded the spot. Lift up yon corpse, said the Egyptian, and guard well the murderer. They raised the body, and great was their horror and scared indignation to discover in that lifeless clay a priest of the adored and venerable Isis, but still greater perhaps was their surprise when they found the accused in the brilliant and admired Athenian. Glaucus cried the bystanders with one accord. Is it even credible? I would sooner, whispered one man to his neighbor, believe it to be the Egyptian himself. Here a centurion thrust himself into the gathering crowd with an air of authority. How, blood spilt, who the murderer? The bystanders pointed to Glaucus. He, by Mars, he has rather the air of being the victim, who accuses him. I, said Arbases, drying himself up hotly, and the jewels which adorned his dress fleshing in the eyes of the soldier, instantly convinced that were the warrior of the witness's respectability. Pardon me, your name, said he. Arbases, it is well known me, thinks in Pompeii. Passing through the grove, I beheld before me the Greek and the priest in earnest conversation. I was struck by the reeling motions of the first, his violent gestures, and the loudness of his voice. He seemed to me either drunk or mad. Suddenly I saw him raise his stylus. I darted forward, too late to arrest the blow. He had twice stabbed his victim, and was bending over him when, in my horror and indignation, I struck the murderer to the ground. He fell without a struggle, which makes me yet more suspect that he was not altogether in his senses when the crime was perpetrated. For I recently recovered from a severe illness, my blow was comparatively feeble, and the frame of Glaucus, as you see, is strong and youthful. His eyes are open now, his lips move, said the soldier. Speak, prisoner, what sayest thou to the charge? The charge, ha-ha! Why, it was merrily done. When the old hag set her serpent at me, and Hecate stood by, laughing from ear to ear, what could I do? But I am ill, I faint. The serpent's fiery tongue hath bitten me. Bear me to bed, and send for your physician. Old Ace Galapius himself will attend me if you let him know that I am Greek. Oh mercy, mercy, I burn! Marrow in brain, I burn! And with a thrilling and fierce groan, the Athenian fell back in the arms of the bystanders. He raves, said the officer compassionately, and in his delirium he has struck the priest. Hath anyone present seen him today? I, said one of the spectators, beheld him in the morning. He passed my shop and accosted me. He seemed well insane as the stoutest of us. And I saw him half an hour ago, said another, passing up the streets, muttering to himself with strange gestures, and just as the Egyptian has described. A corroboration of the witnesses, it must be too true. He must at all events to the praetor. A pity so young and so rich, but the crime is dreadful. A priest of Isis in his very robes, too, and at the base itself of our most ancient chapel. At these words the crowd were reminded more forcibly than in their excitement and curiosity they had yet been of the heinousness of the sacrilege. They shuddered in pious horror. No wonder the earth has quaked, said one, when it held such a monster. Away with him to prison, away cried they all. And one solitary voice was heard shrilly and joyously above the rest. The beasts will not want a gladiator now. Ho, ho, for the merry, merry show. It was the voice of the young woman whose conversation with Medan has been repeated. True, true, it chances in season for the games, cried several, and at that thought all pity for the accused seemed vanished. His youth, his beauty, but fitted him better for the purpose of the arena. Bring hither some planks, or if at hand a litter, to bear the dead, said our bosses. A priest of Isis ought scarcely to be carried to his temple by vulgar hands like a butchered gladiator. At this the bystanders reverently laid the corpse of Apocides on the ground with the face upwards, and some of them went in search of some contrivance to bear the body untouched by the profane. It was just at that time that the crowd gave way to right and left as a sturdy form forced itself through, and Olithus the Christian stood immediately confronting the Egyptian. But his eyes at first only rested with inexpressible grief and horror on that gory side and upturned face on which the agony of violent death yet lingered. Murdered, he said, is it thy zeal that has brought thee to this?   As he looked, he might see in his face and even in the slight shiver of his frame the repugnance and aversion which the Christian felt for one whom he knew to be so dangerous and so criminal. It was indeed the gaze of the bird upon the basilisk, so silent was it, and so prolonged. But shaking off the sudden chill that had crept over him, Olithus extended his right arm towards our bosses and said in a deep and loud voice, Murder have been done upon this corpse. Where is the murderer? Stand forth, Egyptian, for as the Lord liveth, I believe thou art the man. An anxious and perturbed change might for one moment be detected on the dusky features of our bosses. But it gave way to the frowning expression of indignation and scorn. As, odd and arrested by the suddenness and vehemence of the charge, the spectators pressed nearer and nearer upon the two more prominent actors. I know, said our bosses proudly, who is my accuser, and I guess wherefore he thus arraigns me. Men and citizens, I know this man for the most bitter of the Nazarenes, if that or Christians be their proper name. What marvel that in his malignity he dares to accuse even an Egyptian of the murder of a priest of Egypt. I know him, I know the dog, shouted several voices. It is Olithus the Christian, or rather the atheist. He denies the gods. Peace, brethren, said Olithus with dignity, and hear me. This murdered priest of ISIS before his death embraced the Christian faith. He revealed to me the dark sins, the sorceries of Yon Egyptian, the mummaries and delusions of the fain of ISIS. He was about to declare them publicly. He, a stranger unoffending, without enemies. Who should shed his blood but one of those who feared his witness? Who might fear that testimony the most? Our bosses, the Egyptian. You hear him, said our bosses. You hear him, he blasphemes. Ask him if he believes in ISIS. Do I believe in an evil demon? returned Olithus boldly. A groan and shudder passed through the assembly. Nothing daunted, for prepared at every time for peril and in the present excitement losing all prudence, the Christian continued. Back, idolaters, this clay is not for your vain and polluting rights. It is to us, to the followers of Christ, that the last offices due to a Christian belong. I claim this dust in the name of the great Creator who has recalled the spirit. With so solemn and commanding a voice and aspect, the Christian spoke these words, that even the crowd forbore to utter aloud the excretion of fear and hatred, which in their hearts they conceived. And never, perhaps, since Lucifer and the archangel contended for the body of the mighty lawgiver, was there a more striking subject for the painter's genius than that seen exhibited. The dark trees, the stately fane, the moon full on the corpse of the deceased, the torches tossing wildly to and fro in the rear, the various spaces of the motley audience, the insensible form of the Athenian, supported in the distance and in the foreground, and above all, the forms of Arbasis and the Christian, the first drawn to its full height, far taller than the herd around, his arms folded, his brow knit, his eyes fixed, his lips slightly curled in defiance and disdain, the last bearing on the brow worn and furrowed, the majesty of an equal command, the features stern yet frank, the aspect bold yet open, the quiet dignity of the whole form impressed with an ineffable earnestness, hushed as it were in a solemn sympathy with the ah he himself had created, his left hand pointing to the corpse, his right hand raised to heaven, the centurion pressed forward again, in the first place, hast thou Olympus or whatever be thy name, any proof of the charge thou hast made against Arbasis beyond thy vague suspicions? Olympus remained silent, the Egyptian left contemptuously. Does thou claim the body of a priest of Isis as one of the Nazarene or Christian sect? I do. Swear, then, by Yon Fein, Yon Statue of Cybelli, by Yon most ancient Cecelem in Pompeii, that the dead man embraced your faith. Vein man, I disown your idols, I abhor your temples, how can I swear by Cebelli, then? Away, away with the atheist, away, the earth will swallow us if we suffer these blasphemers in a sacred grove, away with him to death. To the beasts, added a female voice in the center of the crowd, we shall have a one apiece now for the lion and tiger. If, O Nazarene, thou disbelivest in Cybelli, which of our gods dost thou own? Resume the soldier, unmoved by the cries around. None. Hark to him, hark! cried the crowd. O Vein and blind, continued the Christian, raising his voice. Can you believe in images of wood and stone? Do you imagine that they have eyes to see, or ears to hear, or hands to help ye? Is Yon mute thing, carved by man's art, a goddess? Hath it made mankind? Alas, by mankind was it made. Lo, convince yourself of its nothingness, of your folly. And as he spoke, he strode across to the feign, and ere any of the bystanders were aware of his purpose, he, in his compassion or his zeal, struck the statue of wood from its pedestal. See! cried he, your goddess cannot avenge herself. Is this a thing to worship? Further words were denied to him, so gross and daring a sacrilege of one, two of the most sacred of their places of worship, filled even the most lukewarm with rage and horror. With one accord, the crowd rushed upon him, seized, and but for the interference of the Centurion, they would have torn him to pieces. Peace, said the soldier authoritatively, refer we this insolent blasphemer to the proper tribunal. Time has been already wasted. Bear we both the culprits to the magistrates, place the body of the priest on the litter, carry it to his own home. At this moment a priest of Isis stepped forward. I claim these remains according to the custom of the priesthood. The flamen be obeyed, said the Centurion. How is the murderer? Insensible or asleep. Were his crimes less, I would pity him. On! Our vases, as he turned, met the eye of that priest of Isis. It was callinous, and something there was in that glance so significant and sinister that the Egyptian muttered to himself. Could he have witnessed the deed?  By Jupiter a stout nave! I say we shall have a man for the tiger now, one for each beast. Ho! shouted the mob, a man for the lion, and another for the tiger. What luck! End of book four, chapter six