With these influences silently at work, the time which the Suburan was spending, in his sojourn under the roof of his relatives, was productive of more good, even morally than physically; whilst Neæra’s presence easily reconciled him to the lapse of time which, as day after day passed on, seemed to bring him no nearer to the proper accomplishment of his great end. Whatever kindly metamorphosis was taking place in his thoughts and disposition, that one resolution which had brought him hither suffered no change or modification. It rose superior to the rest—the gloomy, immovable mountain of his mind, to the dark bosom of which all meditations tended and circled, and beyond which speculation never ventured a step, as if existence had there an end. One of his favourite excursions was to the nearest headland on the western coast, whence the island of Capreae could be seen afar resting in the waters. There he would sit and gaze upon its rugged outline; amusing himself by imagining the movements of his patron, hugging himself with delight, and chuckling audibly, as he conjured before his mind’s eye the fancy picture, oft‐repeated, of the confusion, the rage and despair of the knight, on that joyous day of revenge, which was hurrying on. At such moments, which were very frequent, the Suburan’s blood would tingle in his veins, and his spirit chafe in vehement impatience at the tardy approach of his wished‐for opportunity. He would stretch forth his fist and shake it, in helpless wrath, at the rocky isle which afforded his enemy an asylum, and where he himself was unable to enter,—nor dared, had he the opportunity. So often as he felt impelled, though against his reason, to the same fruitless survey, so often the island seemed to mock him with its changeless form, its very sloth amid the waters, its silence, its impenetrable rocks and impervious mystery. It emitted nothing from which he might glean a reliable idea of the disposition of affairs within its jealous bosom. He could do nothing but gaze at the irritating sight with a kind of fascination, and anathematise it, with all it contained, from Caesar downward. His cunning and vigilance were helpless, and he was compelled to realise that nothing was left to him but patience and watchfulness. As long as Afer remained in Capreae he could not work out his plan. He was, therefore, eager and anxious for every appearance of Martialis from the island, in the hope of learning of the early departure of the Prefect and his friends for Rome.