An hour subsequent to the events already recorded, he went back, not without a suspicion of unsteadiness in his gait. Although a faint, luminous haze had succeeded to the short period of darkness, the moon had not yet topped the crests of the hills which girdled the town and valley. His vision being also a little blurred with the fumes of the wine, he did not perceive that the door, which was always closed at this hour, was wide open. He raised his fist to deal it a blow as usual, but, meeting no resistance, he overbalanced himself and fell forward on his hands and knees. With an oath of astonishment he got up and went forward. At every step his feet crunched the fragments of glass and pottery. More astonished than ever, and not without a suspicion of something wrong, he roared out for a light, whilst he groped his way to the passage leading within. No answer or sound relieving the silence, he was constrained to go forward in the dark until he reached the common dwelling‐room. The door of this was found to be also open, and the gloom impenetrable. He remained on the threshold, for a moment, dumbfounded; but not a sign of life met his ear. ‘What in the name of all that’s damnable has come to the house?’ he muttered; ‘is it a joke—thieves, or what? Where are they—Tibia—Neæra—hillo!’ His voice was no mean one and his roar shook the little house; but he got no return for his pains. With increasing alarm and soberness he groped his way into the room, and, at once, caught his shin against a substantial article of furniture, which was in a most unexpected position. He fell with a cry of pain and rage, and some moments were absorbed in chafing his leg. This done he proceeded more cautiously, and, after a long search, succeeded in laying his hand on flint and steel. He produced a light and surveyed the room. Every article had been dragged about and ransacked. He looked on the scene, with mouth agape, in blank amazement. Then he rushed forward into the shop. The shelves were bared of their contents, and the floor littered with their fragments. Turning back he ascended to the upper floor, and there, on her back, tied and gagged, he perceived the form of Tibia, with her eyes resting upon him in the strange agony of speechless helplessness. ‘What is it, Tibia—what is it? The girl—where is she?’ he cried, springing forward. Drawing his knife he cut her bonds, and raised her into a sitting posture. Tibia burst into a paroxysm of grief. ‘Oh brother, brother—dead, dead!’ ‘Who—the girl—Neæra? Don’t say that, woman!’ he cried furiously. ‘No, no! Masthlion—my husband!’ ‘Did I not say he would never return? But the girl—where is she, in the name of the furies?’ ‘Gone—they have taken her away.’ With a cry like the howl of a wild beast, Cestus threw up his arms. Everything was plain.