Arbaces felt himself tremble as he asked again, 'Wherefore am I here?' 'It is the forecast of thy soul--the prescience of thy rushing doom--the shadow of thy fate lengthening into eternity as declines from earth.' Ere he could answer, Arbaces felt a rushing WIND sweep down the cavern, as the winds of a giant god. Borne aloft from the ground, and whirled on high as a leaf in the storms of autumn, he beheld himself in the midst of the Spectres of the Dead, and hurrying with them along the length of gloom. As in vain and impotent despair he struggled against the impelling power, he thought the WIND grew into something like a shape--a spectral outline of the wings and talons of an eagle, with limbs floating far and indistinctly along the air, and eyes that, alone clearly and vividly seen, glared stonily and remorselessly on his own. 'What art thou?' again said the voice of the Egyptian. 'I am That which thou hast acknowledged'; and the spectre laughed aloud--'and my name is NECESSITY.' 'To what dost thou bear me?' 'To the Unknown.' 'To happiness or to woe?' 'As thou hast sown, so shalt thou reap.' 'Dread thing, not so! If thou art the Ruler of Life, thine are my misdeeds, not mine.' 'I am but the breath of God!' answered the mighty WIND. 'Then is my wisdom vain!' groaned the dreamer. 'The husbandman accuses not fate, when, having sown thistles, he reaps not corn. Thou hast sown crime, accuse not fate if thou reapest not the harvest of virtue.' The scene suddenly changed. Arbaces was in a place of human bones; and lo! in the midst of them was a skull, and the skull, still retaining its fleshless hollows, assumed slowly, and in the mysterious confusion of a dream, the face of Apaecides; and forth from the grinning jaws there crept a small worm, and it crawled to the feet of Arbaces. He attempted to stamp on it and crush it; but it became longer and larger with that attempt. It swelled and bloated till it grew into a vast serpent: it coiled itself round the limbs of Arbaces; it crunched his bones; it raised its glaring eyes and poisonous jaws to his face. He writhed in vain; he withered--he gasped--beneath the influence of the blighting breath--he felt himself blasted into death. And then a voice came from the reptile, which still bore the face of Apaecides and rang in his reeling ear: 'THY VICTIM IS THY JUDGE! THE WORM THOU WOULDST CRUSH BECOMES THE SERPENT THAT DEVOURS THEE!'