A few paces within it stood a large square altar, dedicated to the deity of the grove. Its sculptured figures were indistinct, and worn by centuries of elementary strife. The hoary trees surrounded and spread their branching arms far above it. The silvery rays of Diana slipped through upon it, and it stood, barred with light and shadow, in its sylvan loneliness—ghostly, mysterious, and, as one might fancy, meditating on the memories of generations. It was to this spot the party led by Cestus now approached. The hour was growing late according to the habits of people then. The road, never very busy at any time, was deserted, and the dwellings had ceased before they reached the sacred grove. They walked on until they arrived within eighty or ninety yards of the ancient altar. Fabricius was busy balancing his hopes against the logic of his experiences, and his slaves were, no doubt, cursing the whim of their master, in bringing them out on such a nocturnal expedition. Suddenly Cestus, who had beguiled the way by an intermittent conversation with his companion Pannicus, picked up a stone, and flung it vigorously, as far as he could, among the branches of the trees, in the direction of the altar, which they were approaching. The pebble rattled among the twigs, and fell, with a thud, on the turfy sod beneath. ‘What now, good fellow?’ cried Fabricius from behind, ‘has your day’s labour not given you sufficient exercise?’ ‘Dost not see it?’ said Cestus, pointing to the tops of the trees,—‘an owl! shu!’ And he made a loud noise and flung another stone. ‘Hush, man—you will stir the goddess of the grove—leave the owls in peace!’ said Fabricius. Cestus accordingly desisted, having done as much as he required. In a few strides they were opposite the altar. The Suburan stopped, and wheeled round so suddenly, that the old Senator and his two slaves well‐nigh ran against him. ‘What now, man—what possesses you?’ said Fabricius sharply. ‘One minute, so please you, to pray to the goddess for my poor comrade?’ asked Cestus. ‘Go, then!’ replied Fabricius in a gentle tone, and the pretended workman stepped aside to the altar, where he appeared to engage himself in devotion. He prayed, as follows, in whispered tones: ‘Are you all there, and ready?’ A murmur and a voice rose from the thick shadow of the stones, ‘Ready, ay, and sick of waiting—are they yonder?’ ‘Three dogs of slaves who will run at a shout, and the old man himself. I have come, on leave, for a minute to pray for a sick comrade to get better who died five years ago. When we move on I shall whistle, and then come you on our backs like four thunderbolts.’ Having said this Cestus turned to go back, when a sibilant ‘sh!’ detained him. ‘Wait, Cestus, I think I hear horses’ feet, and the game will be spoiled—hark!’