the martial tread of Sebastian, and hastily he snatched up from the ground the rich scarf which had dropped from Syra’s arm. He shook as he folded it up; and when, to his horror, he found upon it spots of fresh blood, which had oozed through the bandages, he reeled like a drunken man to the door, and rushed to his lodgings. Pale, sick, and staggering, he went into his chamber, repulsing roughly the officious advances of his slaves; and only beckoned to his faithful domestic to follow him, and then signed to him to bar the door. A lamp was burning brightly by the table, on which Fulvius threw the embroidered scarf in silence, and pointed to the stains of blood. That dark man said nothing; but his swarthy countenance was blanched, while his master’s was ashy and livid. “It is the same, no doubt,” at length spoke the attendant in their foreign tongue; “but _she_ is certainly dead.” “Art thou quite sure, Eurotas?” asked the master, with the keenest of his hawk’s looks. “As sure as man can be of what he has not seen himself. Where didst thou find this? And whence this blood?” “I will tell thee all to-morrow; I am too sick to-night. As to those stains, which were liquid when I found it, I know not whence they came, unless they are warnings of vengeance--nay, a vengeance themselves, deep as the Furies could meditate, fierce as they could launch. That blood has not been shed _now_.” “Tut, tut! this is no time for dreams or fancies. Did any one see thee pick the--the thing up?” “No one, I am sure.” “Then we are safe; better in our hands than in others’. A good night’s rest will give us better counsel.” “True, Eurotus; but do thou sleep this night in my chamber.” Both threw themselves on their couches; Fulvius on a rich bed, Eurotus on a lowly pallet, from which, raised upon his elbow, with dark but earnest eye, he long watched, by the lamp’s light, the troubled slumbers of the youth--at once his devoted guardian and his evil genius. Fulvius tossed about and moaned in his sleep, for his dreams were gloomy and heavy. First he sees before him a beautiful city in a distant land, with a river of crystal brightness flowing through it. Upon it is a galley weighing anchor, with a figure on deck, waving towards him, in farewell, an embroidered scarf. The scene changes; the ship is in the midst of the sea, battling with a furious storm, while on the summit of the mast the same scarf streams out, like a pennant, unruffled and uncrumpled by the breeze. The vessel is now dashed upon a rock, and all with a dreadful shriek are buried in the deep. But the topmast stands above the billows, with its calm and brilliant flag; till, amidst the sea-birds that shriek around, a form with a torch in her hand, and black flapping wings, flies by, snatches it from the staff, and with a look of stern anger displays it, as in her flight she pauses before him. He reads upon it, written in fiery letters, NEMESIS.[31]