The two youths were almost blinded by the spectacle of this transformation. Lucius pressed his hand to his brow as if bewildered; Caius stood motionless, apparently scrutinizing, considering, examining. At last a smile of satisfaction flitted over his face. He seemed to have found the solution of this enigma, while Rutilius was still enthralled by the impression the miracle produced. “Approach,” said the Chaldean in sonorous tones. “Stranger, what do you desire to know?” Again the youths exchanged a glance; then Rutilius said: “I would fain learn what the gods have allotted to me, in case I fulfil the most momentous and important design of my life.” Olbasanus delayed his answer as before. At last he replied: “I fear that is more vague than the gods permit. Can you not put your question more clearly; mention, without reserve, the design of which you speak?” Rutilius felt Bononius secretly touch his arm. “No,” he said quietly. “I beg you to try whether an answer cannot be obtained, even without a more exact definition.” Olbasanus looked upward. A ray like a flash of lightning darted down. “Granted,” he said, turning to Rutilius. “By all the terrors of the nether world, you are a favorite of the gods; they bestow such marked kindness only on the chosen ones whom they wish to bless. They usually punish distrust of their interpreter by perpetual silence.” The two youths were growing more excited every instant; Lucius, because the Chaldean’s grave, dignified manner seemed a warrant for the earnestness and truth of what he was about to announce; Caius Bononius, because he was greatly disappointed,--he had been perfectly sure the magician would say that Lucius’ wish was not allowable. Olbasanus now touched the altar with his wand. A clear note, like that produced by striking metal, echoed through the room, and a boy clad in white entered through the curtains at the right. He carried a brazier filled with red-hot coals, which he placed on one of the brass stools beside Olbasanus. “Bring in the victim,” said the Chaldean. The lad withdrew. Olbasanus seized a shovel, filled it with burning coals and carried it to one of the tripods, on which he carefully spread them, then returning to the altar raised his hands. “Hecate!” he said in a hollow tone, “Mistress of the Nether World, Princess of Darkness and Shadows, Ruler of Demons and Departed Spirits, omnipotent, awful goddess! Neither primeval fate, nor any of the higher gods opposes what we design. So I implore thee to graciously grant what Olbasanus timidly whispers. Disclose the future to this youth, quench his thirst for the unfathomable, fill his eyes with clear vision, and teach him what ghosts and demons from east to west impart to thee. If thou art disposed to favor him who, like so many hundred others, appeals to thee, stir thy sacred element; let thy spirit fan the fiery flame and animate it with thy immortal breath!”