'Patience,' resumed the witch; 'patience, I implore. I loved! another and less fair than I--yes, by Nemesis! less fair--allured from me my chosen. I was of that dark Etrurian tribe to whom most of all were known the secrets of the gloomier magic. My mother was herself a saga: she shared the resentment of her child; from her hands I received the potion that was to restore me his love; and from her, also, the poison that was to destroy my rival. Oh, crush me, dread walls! my trembling hands mistook the phials, my lover fell indeed at my feet; but dead! dead! dead! Since then, what has been life to me I became suddenly old, I devoted myself to the sorceries of my race; still by an irresistible impulse I curse myself with an awful penance; still I seek the most noxious herbs; still I concoct the poisons; still I imagine that I am to give them to my hated rival; still I pour them into the phial; still I fancy that they shall blast her beauty to the dust; still I wake and see the quivering body, the foaming lips, the glazing eyes of my Aulus--murdered, and by me!' The skeleton frame of the witch shook beneath strong convulsions. Arbaces gazed upon her with a curious though contemptuous eye. 'And this foul thing has yet human emotions!' thought he; 'still she cowers over the ashes of the same fire that consumes Arbaces!--Such are we all! Mystic is the tie of those mortal passions that unite the greatest and the least.' He did not reply till she had somewhat recovered herself, and now sat rocking to and fro in her seat, with glassy eyes fixed on the opposite flame, and large tears rolling down her livid cheeks. 'A grievous tale is thine, in truth,' said Arbaces. 'But these emotions are fit only for our youth--age should harden our hearts to all things but ourselves; as every year adds a scale to the shell-fish, so should each year wall and incrust the heart. Think of those frenzies no more! And now, listen to me again! By the revenge that was dear to thee, I command thee to obey me! it is for vengeance that I seek thee! This youth whom I would sweep from my path has crossed me, despite my spells:--this thing of purple and broidery, of smiles and glances, soulless and mindless, with no charm but that of beauty--accursed be it!--this insect--this Glaucus--I tell thee, by Orcus and by Nemesis, he must die.' And working himself up at every word, the Egyptian, forgetful of his debility--of his strange companion--of everything but his own vindictive rage, strode, with large and rapid steps, the gloomy cavern. 'Glaucus! saidst thou, mighty master!' said the witch, abruptly; and her dim eye glared at the name with all that fierce resentment at the memory of small affronts so common amongst the solitary and the shunned. 'Ay, so he is called; but what matters the name? Let it not be heard as that of a living man three days from this date!'