'BUT tell me, Glaucus,' said Ione, as they down the Sarnus in their boat of pleasure, 'how camest thou with Apaecides to my rescue from that bad man?'  
'Ask Nydia yonder,' answered the Athenian, pointing to the blind girl, who sat at a little distance from them, leaning over her lyre; 'she must have thy thanks, not we. It seems that she came to my house, and, finding me from home, sought thy brother in his temple; he accompanied her to Arbaces; on their way they encountered me, with a company of friends, whom thy kind letter had given me a spirit cheerful enough to join. Nydia's quick ear detected my voice—a few words sufficed to make me the companion of Apaecides; I told not my associates why I left them—could I trust thy name to their light tongues and gossiping opinion?—Nydia led us to the garden gate, by which we afterwards bore thee—we entered, and were about to into the mysteries of that evil house, when we heard thy cry in another direction. Thou knowest the rest.'
 
Ione blushed deeply. She then raised her eyes to those of Glaucus, and he felt all the thanks she could not utter. 'Come hither, my Nydia,' said she, tenderly, to the Thessalian.
 
'Did I not tell thee that thou shouldst be my sister and friend? Hast thou not already been more?—my , my preserver!'
 
'It is nothing,' answered Nydia coldly, and without stirring.
 
'Ah! I forgot,' continued Ione, 'I should come to thee'; and she moved along the benches till she reached the place where Nydia sat, and flinging her arms round her, covered her cheeks with kisses.
 
Nydia was that morning paler than her , and her grew even more and colorless as she submitted to the embrace of the beautiful Neapolitan. 'But how camest thou, Nydia,' whispered Ione, 'to so faithfully the danger I was exposed to? Didst thou know aught of the Egyptian?'
 
'Yes, I knew of his .'
 
'And how?'
 
'Noble Ione, I have been a slave to the vicious—those whom I served were his .'
 
'And thou hast entered his house since thou knewest so well that private entrance?'
 
'I have played on my lyre to Arbaces,' answered the Thessalian, with .
 
'And thou hast escaped the from which thou hast saved Ione?' returned the Neapolitan, in a voice too low for the ear of Glaucus.
 
'Noble Ione, I have neither beauty nor station; I am a child, and a slave, and blind. The despicable are ever safe.'
 
It was with a pained, and proud, and indignant tone that Nydia made this reply; and Ione felt that she only wounded Nydia by pursuing the subject. She remained silent, and the bark now floated into the sea.
 
'Confess that I was right, Ione,' said Glaucus, 'in on thee not to waste this beautiful noon in thy chamber—confess that I was right.'
 
'Thou wert right, Glaucus,' said Nydia, .
 
'The dear child speaks for thee,' returned the Athenian. 'But permit me to move opposite to thee, or our light boat will be over-balanced.'
 
So saying, he took his seat exactly opposite to Ione, and leaning forward, he fancied that it was her breath, and not the winds of summer, that flung over the sea.
 
'Thou wert to tell me,' said Glaucus, 'why for so many days thy door was closed to me?'
 
'Oh, think of it no more!' answered Ione, quickly; 'I gave my ear to what I now know was the of .'
 
'And my was the Egyptian?'
 
Ione's silence to the question.
 
'His are obvious.'
 
'Talk not of him,' said Ione, covering her face with her hands, as if to shut out his very thought.
 
'Perhaps he may be already by the banks of the slow Styx,' resumed Glaucus; 'yet in that case we should probably have heard of his death. Thy brother, methinks, hath felt the dark influence of his gloomy soul. When we arrived last night at thy house he left me abruptly. Will he ever to be my friend?'
 
'He is consumed with some secret care,' answered Ione, tearfully. 'Would that we could him from himself! Let us join in that tender office.'
 
'He shall be my brother,' returned the Greek.
 
'How calmly,' said Ione, rousing herself from the gloom into which her thoughts of Apaecides had her—'how calmly the clouds seem to in heaven; and yet you tell me, for I knew it not myself, that the earth shook beneath us last night.'
 
'It did, and more violently, they say, than it has done since the great convulsion sixteen years ago: the land we live in yet nurses mysterious terror; and the of , which spreads beneath our burning fields, seems rent with unseen . Didst thou not feel the earth quake, Nydia, where thou wert seated last night? and was it not the fear that it occasioned thee that made thee weep?'
 
'I felt the soil creep and heave beneath me, like some serpent,' answered Nydia; 'but as I saw nothing, I did not fear: I imagined the convulsion to be a spell of the Egyptian's. They say he has power over the elements.'
 
'Thou art a Thessalian, my Nydia,' replied Glaucus, 'and hast a national right to believe in magic.
 
'Magic!—who doubts it?' answered Nydia, simply: 'dost thou?'
 
'Until last night (when a did indeed me), methinks I was not in any other magic save that of love!' said Glaucus, in a tremulous voice, and fixing his eyes on Ione.
 
'Ah!' said Nydia, with a sort of shiver, and she awoke mechanically a few pleasing notes from her lyre; the sound suited well the tranquility of the waters, and the sunny stillness of the noon.
 
'Play to us, dear Nydia, said Glaucus—'play and give us one of thine old Thessalian songs: whether it be of magic or not, as thou wilt—let it, at least, be of love!'
 
'Of love!' repeated Nydia, raising her large, wandering eyes, that ever thrilled those who saw them with a fear and pity; you could never familiarize yourself to their aspect: so strange did it seem that those dark wild were ignorant of the day, and either so was their deep mysterious gaze, or so restless and their glance, that you felt, when you encountered them, that same vague, and chilling, and half-preternatural impression, which comes over you in the presence of the insane—of those who, having a life outwardly like your own, have a life within life—dissimilar—unsearchable—unguessed!
 
'Will you that I should sing of love?' said she, fixing those eyes upon Glaucus.
 
'Yes,' replied he, looking down.
 
She moved a little way from the arm of Ione, still cast round her, as if that soft embrace embarrassed; and placing her light and instrument on her knee, after a short , she sang the following strain:
 
               NYDIA'S LOVE-SONG
 
                     I
 
         The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose,
           And the Rose loved one;
          For who recks the wind where it blows?
          Or loves not the sun?
 
                     II
 
         None knew whence the humble Wind stole,
           Poor sport of the skies—
         None dreamt that the Wind had a soul,
           In its mournful sighs!
 
                    III
 
         Oh, happy Beam! how canst thou prove
           That bright love of thine?
          In thy light is the proof of thy love.
           Thou hast but—to shine!
 
                     IV
 
         How its love can the Wind reveal?
           Unwelcome its sigh;
          Mute—mute to its Rose let it steal—
          Its proof is—to die!
'Thou singest but sadly, sweet girl,' said Glaucus; 'thy youth only feels as yet the dark shadow of Love; far other inspiration doth he wake, when he himself bursts and brightens upon us.
 
'I sing as I was taught,' replied Nydia, sighing.
 
'Thy master was love-crossed, then—try thy hand at a gayer air. , girl, give the instrument to me.' As Nydia obeyed, her hand touched his, and, with that slight touch, her breast heaved—her cheek flushed. Ione and Glaucus, occupied with each other, perceived not those signs of strange and emotions, which upon a heart that, nourished by imagination, with hope.
 
And now, broad, blue, bright, before them, spread that sea, fair as at this moment, seventeen centuries from that date, I it rippling on the same divinest shores. Clime that yet with a soft and Circean spell—that moulds us insensibly, mysteriously, into harmony with thyself, the thought of austerer , the voices of wild ambition, the contests and the roar of life; filling us with gentle and dreams, making necessary to our nature that which is its least earthly portion, so that the very air inspires us with the and thirst of love. Whoever visits thee seems to leave earth and its harsh cares behind—to enter by the Ivory gate into the Land of Dreams. The young and laughing Hours of the PRESENT—the Hours, those children of , which he hungers ever to , seem snatched from his grasp. The past—the future—are forgotten; we enjoy but the breathing time. Flower of the world's garden—Fountain of Delight—Italy of Italy—beautiful, Campania!—vain were, indeed, the Titans, if on this spot they yet struggled for another heaven! Here, if God meant this working-day life for a perpetual holiday, who would not sigh to dwell for ever—asking nothing, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, while thy skies shine over him—while thy seas sparkle at his feet—while thine air brought him sweet messages from the violet and the orange—and while the heart, resigned to—beating with—but one emotion, could find the lips and the eyes, which flatter it (vanity of vanities!) that love can defy custom, and be eternal?
 
It was then in this clime—on those seas, that the Athenian gazed upon a face that might have suited the nymph, the spirit of the place: feeding his eyes on the changeful roses of that softest cheek, happy beyond the happiness of common life, loving, and knowing himself beloved.
 
I............