'Young man,' said Eumolpus, in a low voice, 'desist; I will wound thee

slightly--then lower thy arms; thou hast propitiated the editor and the

mob--thou wilt be honorably saved!'

'And my father still enslaved!' groaned Lydon to himself. 'No! death or

his freedom.'

At that thought, and seeing that, his strength not being equal to the

endurance of the Roman, everything depended on a sudden and desperate

effort, he threw himself fiercely on Eumolpus; the Roman warily

retreated--Lydon thrust again--Eumolpus drew himself aside--the sword

grazed his cuirass--Lydon's breast was exposed--the Roman plunged his

sword through the joints of the armor, not meaning, however, to inflict

a deep wound; Lydon, weak and exhausted, fell forward, fell right on the

point: it passed through and through, even to the back. Eumolpus drew

forth his blade; Lydon still made an effort to regain his balance--his

sword left his grasp--he struck mechanically at the gladiator with his

naked hand, and fell prostrate on the arena. With one accord, editor

and assembly made the signal of mercy--the officers of the arena

approached--they took off the helmet of the vanquished. He still

breathed; his eyes rolled fiercely on his foe; the savageness he had

acquired in his calling glared from his gaze, and lowered upon the brow

darkened already with the shades of death; then, with a convulsive

groan, with a half start, he lifted his eyes above. They rested not on

the face of the editor nor on the pitying brows of his relenting judges.

He saw them not; they were as if the vast space was desolate and bare;

one pale agonizing face alone was all he recognized--one cry of a broken

heart was all that, amidst the murmurs and the shouts of the populace,

reached his ear. The ferocity vanished from his brow; a soft, a tender

expression of sanctifying but despairing love played over his

features--played--waned--darkened! His face suddenly became locked and

rigid, resuming its former fierceness. He fell upon the earth.

'Look to him,' said the aedile; 'he has done his duty!'

The officers dragged him off to the spoliarium.

'A true type of glory, and of its fate!' murmured Arbaces to himself,

and his eye, glancing round the amphitheatre, betrayed so much of

disdain and scorn, that whoever encountered it felt his breath suddenly

arrested, and his emotions frozen into one sensation of abasement and of

awe.

Again rich perfumes were wafted around the theatre; the attendants

sprinkled fresh sand over the arena.

'Bring forth the lion and Glaucus the Athenian,' said the editor.

And a deep and breathless hush of overwrought interest, and intense

(yet, strange to say, not unpleasing) terror lay, like a mighty and

awful dream, over the assembly.

Chapter III

SALLUST AND NYDIA'S LETTER.

THRICE had Sallust awakened from his morning sleep, and thrice,

recollecting that his friend was that day to perish, had he turned

himself with a deep sigh once more to court oblivion. His sole object

in life was to avoid pain; and where he could not avoid, at least to

forget it.

At length, unable any longer to steep his consciousness in slumber, he

raised himself from his incumbent posture, and discovered his favorite

freedman sitting by his bedside as usual; for Sallust, who, as I have

said, had a gentlemanlike taste for the polite letters, was accustomed

to be read to for an hour or so previous to his rising in the morning.

'No books to-day! no more Tibullus! no more Pindar for me! Pindar!

alas, alas! the very name recalls those games to which our arena is the

savage successor. Has it begun--the amphitheatre? are its rites

commenced?'

'Long since, O Sallust! Did you not hear the trumpets and the trampling

feet?'

'Ay, ay; but the gods be thanked, I was drowsy, and had only to turn

round to fall asleep again.'

'The gladiators must have been long in the ring.'

'The wretches! None of my people have gone to the spectacle?'

'Assuredly not; your orders were too strict.'

'That is well--would the day were over! What is that letter yonder on

the table?'

'That! Oh, the letter brought to you last night, when you

were--too--too...'

'Drunk to read it, I suppose. No matter, it cannot be of much

importance.'

'Shall I open it for you, Sallust,'

'Do: anything to divert my thoughts. Poor Glaucus!'

The freedman opened the letter. 'What! Greek?' said he, 'some learned

lady, I suppose.' He glanced over the letter, and for some moments the

irregular lines traced by the blind girl's hand puzzled him. Suddenly,

however, his countenance exhibited emotion and surprise. 'Good gods!

noble Sallust! what have we done not to attend to this before? Hear me

read!'

'"Nydia, the slave, to Sallust, the friend of Glaucus! I am a prisoner

in the house of Arbaces. Hasten to the praetor! procure my release, and

we shall yet save Glaucus from the lion. There is another prisoner

within these walls, whose witness can exonerate the Athenian from the

charge against him--one who saw the crime--who can prove the criminal in

a villain hitherto unsuspected. Fly! hasten! quick! quick! Bring with

you armed men, lest resistance be made, and a cunning and dexterous

smith; for the dungeon of my fellow-prisoner is thick and strong. Oh!

by thy right hand and thy father's ashes, lose not a moment!"'

'Great Jove!' exclaimed Sallust, starting, 'and this day--nay, within

this hour, perhaps, he dies. What is to be done? I will instantly to

the praetor.'

'Nay; not so. The praetor (as well as Pansa, the editor himself) is the

creature of the mob; and the mob will not hear of delay; they will not

be balked in the very moment of expectation. Besides, the publicity of

the appeal would forewarn the cunning Egyptian. It is evident that he

has some interest in these concealments. No; fortunately thy slaves are

in thy house.'

'I seize thy meaning,' interrupted Sallust: 'arm the slaves instantly.

The streets are empty. We will ourselves hasten to the house of

Arbaces, and release the prisoners. Quick! quick! What ho! Davus

there! My gown and sandals, the papyrus and a reed.' I will write to

the praetor, to beseech him to delay the sentence of Glaucus, for that,

within an hour, we may yet prove him innocent. So, so, that is well.

Hasten with this, Davus, to the praetor, at the amphitheatre. See it

given to his own hand. Now then, O ye gods! whose providence Epicurus

denied, befriend me, and I will call Epicurus a liar!'

Chapter IV

THE AMPHITHEATRE ONCE MORE.

GLAUCUS and Olinthus had been placed together in that gloomy and narrow

cell in which the criminals of the arena awaited their last and fearful

struggle. Their eyes, of late accustomed to the darkness, scanned the

faces of each other in this awful hour, and by that dim light, the

paleness, which chased away the natural hues from either cheek, assumed

a yet more ashy and ghastly whiteness. Yet their brows were erect and

dauntless--their limbs did not tremble--their lips were compressed and

rigid. The religion of the one, the pride of the other, the conscious

innocence of both, and, it may be, the support derived from their mutual

companionship, elevated the victim into the hero.

'Hark! hearest thou that shout They are growling over their human

blood,' said Olinthus.

'I hear; my heart grows sick; but the gods support me.'

'The gods! O rash young man! in this hour recognize only the One God.

Have I not taught thee in the dungeon, wept for thee, prayed for

thee?--in my zeal and in my agony, have I not thought more of thy

salvation than my own?'

'Brave friend!' answered Glaucus, solemnly, 'I have listened to thee

with awe, with wonder, and with a secret tendency towards conviction.

Had our lives been spared, I might gradually have weaned myself from the

tenets of my own faith, and inclined to thine; but, in this last hour it

were a craven thing, and a base, to yield to hasty terror what should

only be the result of lengthened meditation. Were I to embrace thy

creed, and cast down my father's gods, should I not be bribed by thy

promise of heaven, or awed by thy threats of hell? Olinthus, no! Think

we of each other with equal charity--I honoring thy sincerity--thou

pitying my blindness or my obdurate courage. As have been my deeds,

such will be my reward; and the Power or Powers above will not judge

harshly of human error, when it is linked with honesty of purpose and

truth of heart. Speak we no more of this. Hush! Dost thou hear them

drag yon heavy body through the passage? Such as that clay will be ours

soon.'

'O Heaven! O Christ! already I behold ye!' cried the fervent Olinthus,

lifting up his hands; 'I tremble not--I rejoice that the prison-house

shall be soon broken.'

Glaucus bowed his head in silence. He felt the distinction between his

fortitude and that of his fellow-sufferer. The heathen did not tremble;

but the Christian exulted.

The door swung gratingly back--the gleam of spears shot along the walls.

'Glaucus the Athenian, thy time has come,' said a loud and clear voice;

'the lion awaits thee.'

'I am ready,' said the Athenian. 'Brother and co-mate, one last

embrace! Bless me--and farewell!'

The Christian opened his arms--he clasped the young heathen to his

breast--he kissed his forehead and cheek--he sobbed aloud--his tears

flowed fast and hot over the features of his new friend.

'Oh! could I have converted thee, I had not wept. Oh! that I might say

to thee, "We two shall sup this night in Paradise!"'

'It may be so yet,' answered the Greek, with a tremulous voice. 'They

whom death part not, may meet yet beyond the grave: on the earth--on the

beautiful, the beloved earth, farewell for ever!--Worthy officer, I

attend you.'

Glaucus tore himself away; and when he came forth into the air, its

breath, which, though sunless, was hot and arid, smote witheringly upon

him. His frame, not yet restored from the effects of the deadly

draught, shrank and trembled. The officers supported him.

'Courage!' said one; 'thou art young, active, well knit. They give thee

a weapon! despair not, and thou mayst yet conquer.'

Glaucus did not reply; but, ashamed of his infirmity, he made a

desperate and convulsive effort, and regained the firmness of his

nerves. They anointed his body, completely naked, save by a cincture

round the loins, placed the stilus (vain weapon!) in his hand, and led

him into the arena.

And now when the Greek saw the eyes of thousands and tens of thousands

upon him, he no longer felt that he was mortal. All evidence of

fear--all fear itself--was gone. A red and haughty flush spread over

the paleness of his features--he towered aloft to the full of his

glorious stature. In the elastic beauty of his limbs and form, in his

intent but unfrowning brow, in the high disdain, and in the indomitable

soul, which breathed visibly, which spoke audibly, from his attitude,

his lip, his eye--he seemed the very incarnation, vivid and corporeal,

of the valor of his land--of the divinity of its worship--at once a hero

and a god!

The murmur of hatred and horror at his crime, which had greeted his

entrance, died into the silence of involuntary admiration and

half-compassionate respect; and with a quick and convulsive sigh, that

seemed to move the whole mass of life as if it were one body, the gaze

of the spectators turned from the Athenian to a dark uncouth object in

the centre of the arena. It was the grated den of the lion!

'By Venus, how warm it is!' said Fulvia; 'yet there is no sun. Would

that those stupid sailors could have fastened up that gap in the

awning!'

'Oh! it is warm, indeed. I turn sick--I faint!' said the wife of Pansa;

even her experienced stoicism giving way at the struggle about to take

place.

The lion had been kept without food for twenty-four hours, and the

animal had, during the whole morning, testified a singular and restless

uneasiness, which the keeper had attributed to the pangs of hunger. Yet

its bearing seemed rather that of fear than of rage; its roar was

painful and distressed; it hung its head--snuffed the air through the

bars--then lay down--started again--and again uttered its wild and

far-resounding cries. And now, in its den, it lay utterly dumb and mute,

with distended nostrils forced hard against the grating, and disturbing

with a heaving breath, the sand below on the arena.

The editor's lip quivered, and his cheek grew pale; he looked anxiously

around--hesitated--delayed; the crowd became impatient. Slowly he gave

the sign; the keeper, who was behind the den, cautiously removed the

grating, and the lion leaped forth with a mighty and glad roar of

release. The keeper hastily retreated through the grated passage

leading from the arena, and left the lord of the forest--and his prey.

Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firmest posture at

the expected rush of the lion, with his small and shining weapon raised

on high, in the faint hope that one well-directed thrust (for he knew

that he should have time but for one) might penetrate through the eye to

the brain of his grim foe.

But, to the unutterable astonishment of all, the beast seemed not even

aware of the presence of the criminal.

At the first moment of its release it halted abruptly in the arena,

raised itself half on end, snuffing the upward air with impatient sighs;

then suddenly it sprang forward, but not on the Athenian. At half-speed

it circled round and round the space, turning its vast head from side to

side with an anxious and perturbed gaze, as if seeking only some avenue

of escape; once or twice it endeavored to leap up the parapet that

divided it from the audience, and, on failing, uttered rather a baffled

howl than its deep-toned and kingly roar. It evinced no sign, either of

wrath or hunger; its tail drooped along the sand, instead of lashing its

gaunt sides; and its eye, though it wandered at times to Glaucus, rolled

again listlessly from him. At length, as if tired of attempting to

escape, it crept with a moan into its cage, and once more laid itself

down to rest.

The first surprise of the assembly at the apathy of the lion soon grew

converted into resentment at its cowardice; and the populace already

merged their pity for the fate of Glaucus into angry compassion for

their own disappointment.

The editor called to the keeper.

'How is this? Take the goad, prick him forth, and then close the door

of the den.'

As the keeper, with some fear, but more astonishment, was preparing to

obey, a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances of the arena; there

was a confusion, a bustle--voices of remonstrance suddenly breaking

forth, and suddenly silenced at the reply. All eyes turned in wonder at

the interruption, towards the quarter of the disturbance; the crowd gave

way, and suddenly Sallust appeared on the senatorial benches, his hair

disheveled--breathless--heated--half-exhausted. He cast his eyes

hastily round the ring. 'Remove the Athenian,' he cried; 'haste--he is

innocent! Arrest Arbaces the Egyptian--HE is the murderer of Apaecides!'

'Art thou mad, O Sallust!' said the praetor, rising from his seat. 'What

means this raving?'

'Remove the Athenian!--Quick! or his blood be on your head. Praetor,

delay, and you answer with your own life to the emperor! I bring with

me the eye-witness to the death of the priest Apaecides. Room

there!--stand back!--give way! People of Pompeii, fix every eye upon

Arbaces--there he sits! Room there for the priest Calenus!'

Pale, haggard, fresh from the jaws of famine and of death, his face

fallen, his eyes dull as a vulture's, his broad frame gaunt as a

skeleton--Calenus was supported into the very row in which Arbaces sat.

His releasers had given him sparingly of food; but the chief sustenance

that nerved his feeble limbs was revenge!

'The priest Calenus!--Calenus!' cried the mob. 'Is it he? No--it is a

dead man?'

'It is the priest Calenus,' said the praetor, gravely. 'What hast thou

to say?'

'Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apaecides, the priest of Isis;

these eyes saw him deal the blow. It is from the dungeon into which he

plunged me--it is from the darkness and horror of a death by

famine--that the gods have raised me to proclaim his crime! Release the

Athenian--he is innocent!'

'It is for this, then, that the lion spared him. A miracle! a miracle!'

cried Pansa.

'A miracle; a miracle!' shouted the people; 'remove the

Athenian--Arbaces to the lion!'

And that shout echoed from hill to vale--from coast to sea--'Arbaces to

the lion!'

Officers, remove the accused Glaucus--remove, but guard him yet,' said

the praetor. 'The gods lavish their wonders upon this day.'

As the praetor gave the word of release, there was a cry of joy--a

female voice--a child's voice--and it was of joy! It rang through the

heart of the assembly with electric force--it, was touching, it was

holy, that child's voice! And the populace echoed it back with

sympathizing congratulation!

'Silence!' said the grave praetor--'who is there?'

'The blind girl--Nydia,' answered Sallust; 'it is her hand that has

raised Calenus from the grave, and delivered Glaucus from the lion.'

'Of this hereafter,' said the praetor. 'Calenus, priest of Isis, thou

accusest Arbaces of the murder of Apaecides?'

'I do.'

'Thou didst behold the deed?'

'Praetor--with these eyes...'

'Enough at present--the details must be reserved for more suiting time

and place. Arbaces of Egypt, thou hearest the charge against thee--thou

hast not yet spoken--what hast thou to say.

The gaze of the crowd had been long riveted on Arbaces: but not until

the confusion which he had betrayed at the first charge of Sallust and

the entrance of Calenus had subsided. At the shout, 'Arbaces to the

lion!' he had indeed trembled, and the dark bronze of his cheek had

taken a paler hue. But he had soon recovered his haughtiness and

self-control. Proudly he returned the angry glare of the countless eyes

around him; and replying now to the question of the praetor, he said, in

that accent so peculiarly tranquil and commanding, which characterized

his tones:

'Praetor, this charge is so mad that it scarcely deserves reply. My

first accuser is the noble Sallust--the most intimate friend of Glaucus!

my second is a priest; I revere his garb and calling--but, people of

Pompeii! ye know somewhat of the character of Calenus--he is griping and

gold-thirsty to a proverb; the witness of such men is to be bought!

Praetor, I am innocent!'

'Sallust,' said the magistrate, 'where found you Calenus?'

'In the dungeons of Arbaces.'

'Egyptian,' said the praetor, frowning, 'thou didst, then, dare to

imprison a priest of the gods--and wherefore?'

'Hear me,' answered Arbaces, rising calmly, but with agitation visible

in his face. 'This man came to threaten that he would make against me

the charge he has now made, unless I would purchase his silence with

half my fortune: I remonstrated--in vain. Peace there--let not the

priest interrupt me! Noble praetor--and ye, O people! I was a stranger

in the land--I knew myself innocent of crime--but the witness of a

priest against me might yet destroy me. In my perplexity I decoyed him

to the cell whence he has been released, on pretence that it was the

coffer-house of my gold. I resolved to detain him there until the fate

of the true criminal was sealed, and his threats could avail no longer;

but I meant no worse. I may have erred--but who amongst ye will not

acknowledge the equity of self-preservation? Were I guilty, why was the

witness of this priest silent at the trial?--then I had not detained or

concealed him. Why did he not proclaim my guilt when I proclaimed that

of Glaucus? Praetor, this needs an answer. For the rest, I throw myself

on your laws. I demand their protection. Remove hence the accused and

the accuser. I will willingly meet, and cheerfully abide by, the

decision of the legitimate tribunal. This is no place for further

parley.'

'He says right,' said the praetor. 'Ho! guards--remove Arbaces--guard

Calenus! Sallust, we hold you responsible for your accusation. Let the

sports be resumed.'

'What!' cried Calenus, turning round to the people, 'shall Isis be thus

contemned? Shall the blood of Apaecides yet cry for vengeance? Shall

justice be delayed now, that it may be frustrated hereafter? Shall the

lion be cheated of his lawful prey? A god! a god!--I feel the god rush

to my lips! To the lion--to the lion with Arbaces!'

His exhausted frame could support no longer the ferocious malice of the

priest; he sank on the ground in strong convulsions--the foam gathered

to his mouth--he was as a man, indeed, whom a supernatural power had

entered! The people saw and shuddered.

'It is a god that inspires the holy man! To the lion with the

Egyptian!'

With that cry up sprang--on moved--thousands upon thousands! They rushed

from the heights--they poured down in the direction of the Egyptian. In

vain did the aedile command--in vain did the praetor lift his voice and

proclaim the law. The people had been already rendered savage by the

exhibition of blood--they thirsted for more--their superstition was

aided by their ferocity. Aroused--inflamed by the spectacle of their

victims, they forgot the authority of their rulers. It was one of those

dread popular convulsions common to crowds wholly ignorant, half free

and half servile; and which the peculiar constitution of the Roman

provinces so frequently exhibited. The power of the praetor was as a

reed beneath the whirlwind; still, at his word the guards had drawn

themselves along the lower benches, on which the upper classes sat

separate from the vulgar. They made but a feeble barrier--the waves of

the human sea halted for a moment, to enable Arbaces to count the exact

moment of his doom! In despair, and in a terror which beat down even

pride, he glanced his eyes over the rolling and rushing crowd--when,

right above them, through the wide chasm which had been left in the

velaria, he beheld a strange and awful apparition--he beheld--and his

craft restored his courage!

He stretched his hand on high; over his lofty brow and royal features

there came an expression of unutterable solemnity and command.

'Behold!' he shouted with a voice of thunder, which stilled the roar of

the crowd; 'behold how the gods protect the guiltless! The fires of the

avenging Orcus burst forth against the false witness of my accusers!'

The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyptian, and beheld,

with ineffable dismay, a vast vapor shooting from the summit of

Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic pine-tree; the trunk, blackness--the

branches, fire!--a fire that shifted and wavered in its hues with every

moment, now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying red, that again

blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare!

There was a dead, heart-sunken silence--through which there suddenly

broke the roar of the lion, which was echoed back from within the

building by the sharper and fiercer yells of its fellow-beast. Dread

seers were they of the Burden of the Atmosphere, and wild prophets of

the wrath to come!

Then there arose on high the universal shrieks of women; the men stared

at each other, but were dumb. At that moment they felt the earth shake

beneath their feet; the walls of the theatre trembled: and, beyond in

the distance, they heard the crash of falling roofs; an instant more and

the mountain-cloud seemed to roll towards them, dark and rapid, like a

torrent; at the same time, it cast forth from its bosom a shower of

ashes mixed with vast fragments of burning stone! Over the crushing

vines--over the desolate streets--over the amphitheatre itself--far and

wide--with many a mighty splash in the agitated sea--fell that awful

shower!

No longer thought the crowd of justice or of Arbaces; safety for

themselves was their sole thought. Each turned to fly--each dashing,

pressing, crushing, against the other. Trampling recklessly over the

fallen--amidst groans, and oaths, and prayers, and sudden shrieks, the

enormous crowd vomited itself forth through the numerous passages.

Whither should they fly? Some, anticipating a second earthquake,

hastened to their homes to load themselves with their more costly goods,

and escape while it was yet time; others, dreading the showers of ashes

that now fell fast, torrent upon torrent, over the streets, rushed under

the roofs of the nearest houses, or temples, or sheds--shelter of any

kind--for protection from the terrors of the open air. But darker, and

larger, and mightier, spread the cloud above them. It was a sudden and

more ghastly Night rushing upon the realm of Noon!

Chapter V

THE CELL OF THE PRISONER AND THE DEN OF THE DEAD. GRIEF UNCONSCIOUS OF

HORROR.

STUNNED by his reprieve, doubting that he was awake, Glaucus had been

led by the officers of the arena into a small cell within the walls of

the theatre. They threw a loose robe over his form, and crowded round in

congratulation and wonder. There was an impatient and fretful cry

without the cell; the throng gave way, and the blind girl, led by some

gentler hand, flung herself at the feet of Glaucus.

'It is I who have saved thee,' she sobbed; 'now let me die!'

'Nydia, my child!--my preserver!'

'Oh, let me feel thy touch--thy breath! Yes, yes, thou livest! We are

not too late! That dread door, methought it would never yield! and

Calenus--oh! his voice was as the dying wind among tombs--we had to

wait--gods! it seemed hours ere food and wine restored to him something

of strength. But thou livest! thou livest yet! And I--I have saved

thee!'

This affecting scene was soon interrupted by the event just described.

'The mountain! the earthquake!' resounded from side to side. The

officers fled with the rest; they left Glaucus and Nydia to save

themselves as they might.

As the sense of the dangers around them flashed on the Athenian, his

generous heart recurred to Olinthus. He, too, was reprieved from the

tiger by the hand of the gods; should he be left to a no less fatal

death in the neighboring cell? Taking Nydia by the hand, Glaucus

hurried across the passages; he gained the den of the Christian! He

found Olinthus kneeling and in prayer.

'Arise! arise! my friend,' he cried. 'Save thyself, and fly! See!

Nature is thy dread deliverer!' He led forth the bewildered Christian,

and pointed to a cloud which advanced darker and darker, disgorging

forth showers of ashes and pumice stones--and bade him hearken to the

cries and trampling rush of the scattered crowd.

'This is the hand of God--God be praised!' said Olinthus, devoutly.

'Fly! seek thy brethren!--Concert with them thy escape. Farewell!'

Olinthus did not answer, neither did he mark the retreating form of his

friend. High thoughts and solemn absorbed his soul: and in the

enthusiasm of his kindling heart, he exulted in the mercy of God rather

than trembled at the evidence of His power.

At length he roused himself, and hurried on, he scarce knew whither.

The open doors of a dark, desolate cell suddenly appeared on his path;

through the gloom within there flared and flickered a single lamp; and

by its light he saw three grim and naked forms stretched on the earth in

death. His feet were suddenly arrested; for, amidst the terror of that

drear recess--the spoliarium of the arena--he heard a low voice calling

on the name of Christ!

He could not resist lingering at that appeal: he entered the den, and

his feet were dabbled in the slow streams of blood that gushed from the

corpses over the sand.

'Who,' said the Nazarene, 'calls upon the son of God?'

No answer came forth; and turning round, Olinthus beheld, by the light

of the lamp, an old grey-headed man sitting on the floor, and supporting

in his lap the head of one of the dead. The features of the dead man

were firmly and rigidly locked in the last sleep; but over the lip there

played a fierce smile--not the Christian's smile of hope, but the dark

sneer of hatred and defiance. Yet on the face still lingered the

beautiful roundness of early youth. The hair curled thick and glossy

over the unwrinkled brow; and the down of manhood but slightly shaded

the marble of the hueless cheek. And over this face bent one of such

unutterable sadness--of such yearning tenderness--of such fond and such

deep despair! The tears of the old man fell fast and hot, but he did

not feel them; and when his lips moved, and he mechanically uttered the

prayer of his benign and hopeful faith, neither his heart nor his sense

responded to the words: it was but the involuntary emotion that broke

from the lethargy of his mind. His boy was dead, and had died for

him!--and the old man's heart was broken!

'Medon!' said Olinthus, pityingly, 'arise, and fly! God is forth upon

the wings of the elements! The New Gomorrah is doomed!--Fly, ere the

fires consume thee!'

'He was ever so full of life!--he cannot be dead! Come hither!--place

your hand on his heart!--sure it beats yet?'

'Brother, the soul has fled! We will remember it in our prayers! Thou

canst not reanimate the dumb clay! Come, come--hark! while I speak, yon

crashing walls!--hark! yon agonizing cries! Not a moment is to be

lost!--Come!'

'I hear nothing!' said Medon, shaking his grey hair. 'The poor boy, his

love murdered him!'

'Come! come! forgive this friendly force.'

'What! Who could sever the father from the son?' And Medon clasped the

body tightly in his embrace, and covered it with passionate kisses.

'Go!' said he, lifting up his face for one moment. 'Go!--we must be

alone!'

'Alas!' said the compassionate Nazarene, 'Death hath severed ye

already!'

The old man smiled very calmly. 'No, no, no!' muttered, his voice

growing lower with each word--'Death has been more kind!'

With that his head drooped on His son's breast--his arms relaxed their

grasp. Olinthus caught him by the hand--the pulse had ceased to beat!

The last words of the father were the words of truth--Death had been

more kind!

Meanwhile Glaucus and Nydia were pacing swiftly up the perilous and

fearful streets. The Athenian had learned from his preserver that Ione

was yet in the house of Arbaces. Thither he fled, to release--to save

her! The few slaves whom the Egyptian had left at his mansion when he

had repaired in long procession to the amphitheatre, had been able to

offer no resistance to the armed band of Sallust; and when afterwards

the volcano broke forth, they had huddled together, stunned and

frightened, in the inmost recesses of the house. Even the tall

Ethiopian had forsaken his post at the door; and Glaucus (who left Nydia

without--the poor Nydia, jealous once more, even in such an hour!)

passed on through the vast hall without meeting one from whom to learn

the chamber of Ione. Even as he passed, however, the darkness that

covered the heavens increased so rapidly that it was with difficulty he

could guide his steps. The flower-wreathed columns seemed to reel and

tremble; and with every instant he heard the ashes fall cranchingly into

the roofless peristyle. He ascended to the upper rooms--breathless he

paced along, shouting out aloud the name of Ione; and at length he

heard, at the end of a gallery, a voice--her voice, in wondering reply!

To rush forward--to shatter the door--to seize Ione in his arms--to

hurry from the mansion--seemed to him the work of an instant! Scarce

had he gained the spot where Nydia was, than he heard steps advancing

towards the house, and recognized the voice of Arbaces, who had returned

to seek his wealth and Ione ere he fled from the doomed Pompeii. But so

dense was already the reeking atmosphere, that the foes saw not each

other, though so near--save that, dimly in the gloom, Glaucus caught the

moving outline of the snowy robes of the Egyptian.

They hastened onward--those three. Alas! whither? They now saw not a

step before them--the blackness became utter. They were encompassed

with doubt and horror!--and the death he had escaped seemed to Glaucus

only to have changed its form and augmented its victims.

Chapter VI

CALENUS AND BURBO. DIOMED AND CLODIUS. THE GIRL OF THE AMPHITHEATRE

AND JULIA.

THE sudden catastrophe which had, as it were, riven the very bonds of

society, and left prisoner and jailer alike free, had soon rid Calenus

of the guards to whose care the praetor had consigned him. And when the

darkness and the crowd separated the priest from his attendants, he

hastened with trembling steps towards the temple of his goddess. As he

crept along, and ere the darkness was complete, he felt himself suddenly

caught by the robe, and a voice muttered in his ear:

'Hist!--Calenus!--an awful hour!'

'Ay! by my father's head! Who art thou?--thy face is dim, and thy voice

is strange.

'Not know thy Burbo?--fie!'

'Gods!--how the darkness gathers! Ho, ho!--by yon terrific mountain,

what sudden blazes of lightning!'--How they dart and quiver! Hades is

loosed on earth!'

'Tush!--thou believest not these things, Calenus! Now is the time to

make our fortune!'

'Ha!'

'Listen! Thy temple is full of gold and precious mummeries!--let us load

ourselves with them, and then hasten to the sea and embark! None will

ever ask an account of the doings of this day.'

'Burbo, thou art right! Hush, and follow me into the temple. Who cares

now--who sees now--whether thou art a priest or not? Follow, and we

will share.'

In the precincts of the temple were many priests gathered around the

altars, praying, weeping, grovelling in the dust. Impostors in safety,

they were not the less superstitious in danger! Calenus passed them,

and entered the chamber yet to be seen in the south side of the court.

Burbo followed him--the priest struck a light. Wine and viands strewed

the table; the remains of a sacrificial feast.

'A man who has hungered forty-eight hours,' muttered Calenus, 'has an

appetite even in such a time.' He seized on the food, and devoured it

greedily. Nothing could perhaps, be more unnaturally horrid than the

selfish baseness of these villains; for there is nothing more loathsome

than the valor of avarice. Plunder and sacrilege while the pillars of

the world tottered to and fro! What an increase to the terrors of

nature can be made by the vices of man!

'Wilt thou never have done?' said Burbo, impatiently; 'thy face purples

and thine eyes start already.'

'It is not every day one has such a right to be hungry. Oh, Jupiter!

what sound is that?--the hissing of fiery water! What! does the cloud

give rain as well as flame! Ha!--what! shrieks? And, Burbo, how silent

all is now! Look forth!'

Amidst the other horrors, the mighty mountain now cast up columns of

boiling water. Blent and kneaded with the half-burning ashes, the

streams fell like seething mud over the streets in frequent intervals.

And full, where the priests of Isis had now cowered around the altars,

on which they had vainly sought to kindle fires and pour incense, one of

the fiercest of those deadly torrents, mingled with immense fragments of

scoria, had poured its rage. Over the bended forms of the priests it

dashed: that cry had been of death--that silence had been of eternity!

The ashes--the pitchy streams--sprinkled the altars, covered the

pavement, and half concealed the quivering corpses of the priests!

'They are dead,' said Burbo, terrified for the first time, and hurrying

back into the cell. 'I thought not the danger was so near and fatal.'

The two wretches stood staring at each other--you might have heard their

hearts beat! Calenus, the less bold by nature, but the more griping,

recovered first.

'We must to our task, and away!' he said, in a low whisper, frightened

at his own voice. He stepped to the threshold, paused, crossed over the

heated floor and his dead brethren to the sacred chapel, and called to

Burbo to follow. But the gladiator quaked, and drew back.

'So much the better,' thought Calenus; 'the more will be my booty.'

Hastily he loaded himself with the more portable treasures of the

temple; and thinking no more of his comrade, hurried from the sacred

place. A sudden flash of lightning from the mount showed to Burbo, who

stood motionless at the threshold, the flying and laden form of the

priest. He took heart; he stepped forth to join him, when a tremendous

shower of ashes fell right before his feet. The gladiator shrank back

once more. Darkness closed him in. But the shower continued

fast--fast; its heaps rose high and suffocatingly--deathly vapors

steamed from them. The wretch gasped for breath--he sought in despair

again to fly--the ashes had blocked up the threshold--he shrieked as his

feet shrank from the boiling fluid. How could he escape? he could not

climb to the open space; nay, were he able, he could not brave its

horrors. It were best to remain in the cells, protected, at least, from

the fatal air. He sat down and clenched his teeth. By degrees, the

atmosphere from without--stifling and venomous--crept into the chamber.

He could endure it no longer. His eyes, glaring round, rested on a

sacrificial axe, which some priest had left in the chamber: he seized

it. With the desperate strength of his gigantic arm, he attempted to hew

his way through the walls.

Meanwhile, the streets were already thinned; the crowd had hastened to

disperse itself under shelter; the ashes began to fill up the lower

parts of the town; but, here and there, you heard the steps of fugitives

cranching them warily, or saw their pale and haggard faces by the blue

glare of the lightning, or the more unsteady glare of torches, by which

they endeavored to steer their steps. But ever and anon, the boiling

water, or the straggling ashes, mysterious and gusty winds, rising and

dying in a breath, extinguished these wandering lights, and with them

the last living hope of those who bore them.

In the street that leads to the gate of Herculaneum, Clodius now bent

his perplexed and doubtful way. 'If I can gain the open country,'

thought he, 'doubtless there will be various vehicles beyond the gate,

and Herculaneum is not far distant. Thank Mercury! I have little to

lose, and that little is about me!'

'Holla!--help there--help!' cried a querulous and frightened voice. 'I

have fallen down--my torch has gone out--my slaves have deserted me. I

am Diomed--the rich Diomed--ten thousand sesterces to him who helps me!'

At the same moment, Clodius felt himself caught by the feet. 'Ill

fortune to thee--let me go, fool,' said the gambler.

'Oh, help me up!--give me thy hand!'

'There--rise!'

'Is this Clodius? I know the voice! Whither fliest thou?'

'Towards Herculaneum.'

'Blessed be the gods! our way is the same, then, as far as the gate.

Why not take refuge in my villa? Thou knowest the long range of

subterranean cellars beneath the basement--that shelter, what shower can

penetrate?'

'You speak well,' said Clodius musingly. 'And by storing the cellar

with food, we can remain there even some days, should these wondrous

storms endure so long.'

'Oh, blessed be he who invented gates to a city!' cried Diomed.

'See!--they have placed a light within yon arch: by that let us guide

our steps.'

The air was now still for a few minutes: the lamp from the gate streamed

out far and clear: the fugitives hurried on--they gained the gate--they

passed by the Roman sentry; the lightning flashed over his livid face

and polished helmet, but his stern features were composed even in their

awe! He remained erect and motionless at his post. That hour itself

had not animated the machine of the ruthless majesty of Rome into the

reasoning and self-acting man. There he stood, amidst the crashing

elements: he had not received the permission to desert his station and

escape.

Diomed and his companion hurried on, when suddenly a female form rushed

athwart their way. It was the girl whose ominous voice had been raised

so often and so gladly in anticipation of 'the merry show'.

'Oh, Diomed!' she cried, 'shelter! shelter! See'--pointing to an infant

clasped to her breast--'see this little one!--it is mine!--the child of

shame! I have never owned it till this hour. But now I remember I am a

mother! I have plucked it from the cradle of its nurse: she had fled!

Who could think of the babe in such an hour, but she who bore it? Save

it! save it!'

'Curses on thy shrill voice! Away, harlot!' muttered Clodius between

his ground teeth.

'Nay, girl,' said the more humane Diomed; 'follow if thou wilt. This

way--this way--to the vaults!'

They hurried on--they arrived at the house of Diomed--they laughed aloud

as they crossed the threshold, for they deemed the danger over.

Diomed ordered his slaves to carry down into the subterranean gallery,

before described, a profusion of food and oil for lights; and there

Julia, Clodius, the mother and her babe, the greater part of the slaves,

and some frightened visitors and clients of the neighborhood, sought

their shelter.

Chapter VII

THE PROGRESS OF THE DESTRUCTION.

THE cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the day, had now

settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. It resembled less even the

thickest gloom of a night in the open air than the close and blind

darkness of some narrow room. But in proportion as the blackness

gathered, did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase in their vivid and

scorching glare. Nor was their horrible beauty confined to the usual

hues of fire; no rainbow ever rivalled their varying and prodigal dyes.

Now brightly blue as the most azure depth of a southern sky--now of a

livid and snakelike green, darting restlessly to and fro as the folds of

an enormous serpent--now of a lurid and intolerable crimson, gushing

forth through the columns of smoke, far and wide, and lighting up the

whole city from arch to arch--then suddenly dying into a sickly

paleness, like the ghost of their own life!

In the pauses of the showers, you heard the rumbling of the earth

beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea; or, lower still,

and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and hissing

murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant mountain.

Sometimes the cloud appeared to break from its solid mass, and, by the

lightning, to assume quaint and vast mimicries of human or of monster

shapes, striding across the gloom, hurtling one upon the other, and

vanishing swiftly into the turbulent abyss of shade; so that, to the

eyes and fancies of the affrighted wanderers, the unsubstantial vapors

were as the bodily forms of gigantic foes--the agents of terror and of

death.

The ashes in many places were already knee-deep; and the boiling showers

which came from the steaming breath of the volcano forced their way into

the houses, bearing with them a strong and suffocating vapor. In some

places, immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house roofs, bore

down along the streets masses of confused ruin, which yet more and more,

with every hour, obstructed the way; and, as the day advanced, the

motion of the earth was more sensibly felt--the footing seemed to slide

and creep--nor could chariot or litter be kept steady, even on the most

level ground.

Sometimes the huger stones striking against each other as they fell,

broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which caught

whatever was combustible within their reach; and along the plains beyond

the city the darkness was now terribly relieved; for several houses, and

even vineyards, had been set on flames; and at various intervals the

fires rose suddenly and fiercely against the solid gloom. To add to

this partial relief of the darkness, the citizens had, here and there,

in the more public places, such as the porticoes of temples and the

entrances to the forum, endeavored to place rows of torches; but these

rarely continued long; the showers and the winds extinguished them, and

the sudden darkness into which their sudden birth was converted had

something in it doubly terrible and doubly impressing on the impotence

of human hopes, the lesson of despair.

Frequently, by the momentary light of these torches, parties of

fugitives encountered each other, some hurrying towards the sea, others

flying from the sea back to the land; for the ocean had retreated

rapidly from the shore--an utter darkness lay over it, and upon its

groaning and tossing waves the storm of cinders and rock fell without

the protection which the streets and roofs afforded to the land.

Wild--haggard--ghastly with supernatural fears, these groups encountered

each other, but without the leisure to speak, to consult, to advise; for

the showers fell now frequently, though not continuously, extinguishing

the lights, which showed to each band the deathlike faces of the other,

and hurrying all to seek refuge beneath the nearest shelter. The whole

elements of civilization were broken up. Ever and anon, by the

flickering lights, you saw the thief hastening by the most solemn

authorities of the law, laden with, and fearfully chuckling over, the

produce of his sudden gains. If, in the darkness, wife was separated

from husband, or parent from child, vain was the hope of reunion. Each

hurried blindly and confusedly on. Nothing in all the various and

complicated machinery of social life was left save the primal law of

self-preservation!

Through this awful scene did the Athenian wade his way, accompanied by

Ione and the blind girl. Suddenly, a rush of hundreds, in their path to

the sea, swept by them. Nydia was torn from the side of Glaucus, who,

with Ione, was borne rapidly onward; and when the crowd (whose forms

they saw not, so thick was the gloom) were gone, Nydia was still

separated from their side. Glaucus shouted her name. No answer came.

They retraced their steps--in vain: they could not discover her--it was

evident she had been swept along some opposite direction by the human

current. Their friend, their preserver, was lost! And hitherto Nydia

had been their guide. Her blindness rendered the scene familiar to her

alone. Accustomed, through a perpetual night, to thread the windings of

the city, she had led them unerringly towards the sea-shore, by which

they had resolved to hazard an escape. Now, which way could they wend?

all was rayless to them--a maze without a clue. Wearied, despondent,

bewildered, they, however, passed along, the ashes falling upon their

heads, the fragmentary stones dashing up in sparkles before their feet.

'Alas! alas!' murmured Ione, 'I can go no farther; my steps sink among

the scorching cinders. Fly, dearest!--beloved, fly! and leave me to my

fate!'

'Hush, my betrothed! my bride! Death with thee is sweeter than life

without thee! Yet, whither--oh! whither, can we direct ourselves

through the gloom? Already it seems that we have made but a circle, and

are in the very spot which we quitted an hour ago.'

'O gods! yon rock--see, it hath riven the roof before us! It is death

to move through the streets!'

'Blessed lightning! See, Ione--see! the portico of the Temple of

Fortune is before us. Let us creep beneath it; it will protect us from

the showers.'

He caught his beloved in his arms, and with difficulty and labor gained

the temple. He bore her to the remoter and more sheltered part of the

portico, and leaned over her, that he might shield her, with his own

form, from the lightning and the showers! The beauty and the

unselfishness of love could hallow even that dismal time!

'Who is there?' said the trembling and hollow voice of one who had

preceded them in their place of refuge. 'Yet, what matters?--the crush

of the ruined world forbids to us friends or foes.'

Ione turned at the sound of the voice, and, with a faint shriek, cowered

again beneath the arms of Glaucus: and he, looking in the direction of

the voice, beheld the cause of her alarm. Through the darkness glared

forth two burning eyes--the lightning flashed and lingered athwart the

temple--and Glaucus, with a shudder, perceived the lion to which he had

been doomed couched beneath the pillars--and, close beside it, unwitting

of the vicinity, lay the giant form of him who had accosted them--the

wounded gladiator, Niger.

That lightning had revealed to each other the form of beast and man; yet

the instinct of both was quelled. Nay, the lion crept nearer and nearer

to the gladiator, as for companionship; and the gladiator did not recede

or tremble. The revolution of Nature had dissolved her lighter terrors

as well as her wonted ties.

While they were thus terribly protected, a group of men and women,

bearing torches, passed by the temple. They were of the congregation of

the Nazarenes; and a sublime and unearthly emotion had not, indeed,

quelled their awe, but it had robbed awe of fear. They had long

believed, according to the error of the early Christians, that the Last

Day was at hand; they imagined now that the Day had come.

'Woe! woe!' cried, in a shrill and piercing voice, the elder at their

head. 'Behold! the Lord descendeth to judgment! He maketh fire come

down from heaven in the sight of men! Woe! woe! ye strong and mighty!

Woe to ye of the fasces and the purple! Woe to the idolater and the

worshipper of the beast! Woe to ye who pour forth the blood of saints,

and gloat over the death-pangs of the sons of God! Woe to the harlot of

the sea!--woe! woe!'

And with a loud and deep chorus, the troop chanted forth along the wild

horrors of the air, 'Woe to the harlot of the sea!--woe! woe!'

The Nazarenes paced slowly on, their torches still flickering in the

storm, their voices still raised in menace and solemn warning, till,

lost amid the windings in the streets, the darkness of the atmosphere

and the silence of death again fell over the scene.

There was one of the frequent pauses in the showers, and Glaucus

encouraged Ione once more to proceed. Just as they stood, hesitating,

on the last step of the portico, an old man, with a bag in his right

hand and leaning upon a youth, tottered by. The youth bore a torch.

Glaucus recognized the two as father and son--miser and prodigal.

'Father,' said the youth, 'if you cannot move more swiftly, I must leave

you, or we both perish!'

'Fly, boy, then, and leave thy sire!'

'But I cannot fly to starve; give me thy bag of gold!' And the youth

snatched at it.

'Wretch! wouldst thou rob thy father?'

'Ay! who can tell the tale in this hour? Miser, perish!'

The boy struck the old man to the ground, plucked the bag from his

relaxing hand, and fled onward with a shrill yell.

'Ye gods!' cried Glaucus: 'are ye blind, then, even in the dark? Such

crimes may well confound the guiltless with the guilty in one common

ruin. Ione, on!--on!'

Chapter VIII

ARBACES ENCOUNTERS GLAUCUS AND IONE.

ADVANCING, as men grope for escape in a dungeon, Ione and her lover

continued their uncertain way. At the moments when the volcanic

lightnings lingered over the streets, they were enabled, by that awful

light, to steer and guide their progress: yet, little did the view it

presented to them cheer or encourage their path. In parts, where the

ashes lay dry and uncommixed with the boiling torrents, cast upward from

the mountain at capricious intervals, the surface of the earth presented

a leprous and ghastly white. In other places, cinder and rock lay

matted in heaps, from beneath which emerged the half-hid limbs of some

crushed and mangled fugitive. The groans of the dying were broken by

wild shrieks of women's terror--now near, now distant--which, when heard

in the utter darkness, were rendered doubly appalling by the crushing

sense of helplessness and the uncertainty of the perils around; and

clear and distinct through all were the mighty and various noises from

the Fatal Mountain; its rushing winds; its whirling torrents; and, from

time to time, the burst and roar of some more fiery and fierce

explosion. And ever as the winds swept howling along the street, they

bore sharp streams of burning dust, and such sickening and poisonous

vapors, as took away, for the instant, breath and consciousness,

followed by a rapid revulsion of the arrested blood, and a tingling

sensation of agony trembling through every nerve and fibre of the frame.

'Oh, Glaucus! my beloved! my own!--take me to thy arms! One embrace!

let me feel thy arms around me--and in that embrace let me die--I can no

more!'

'For my sake, for my life--courage, yet, sweet Ione--my life is linked

with thine: and see--torches--this way! Lo! how they brave the Wind!

Ha! they live through the storm--doubtless, fugitives to the sea! we

will join them.'

As if to aid and reanimate the lovers, the winds and showers came to a

sudden pause; the atmosphere was profoundly still--the mountain seemed

at rest, gathering, perhaps, fresh fury for its next burst; the

torch-bearers moved quickly on. 'We are nearing the sea,' said, in a

calm voice, the person at their head. 'Liberty and wealth to each slave

who survives this day! Courage! I tell you that the gods themselves

have assured me of deliverance. On!'

Redly and steadily the torches flashed full on the eyes of Glaucus and

Ione, who lay trembling and exhausted on his bosom. Several slaves were

bearing, by the light, panniers and coffers, heavily laden; in front of

them--a drawn sword in his hand--towered the lofty form of Arbaces.

'By my fathers!' cried the Egyptian, 'Fate smiles upon me even through

these horrors, and, amidst the dreadest aspects of woe and death, bodes

me happiness and love. Away, Greek! I claim my ward, Ione!'

'Traitor and murderer!' cried Glaucus, glaring upon his foe, 'Nemesis

hath guided thee to my revenge!--a just sacrifice to the shades of

Hades, that now seem loosed on earth. Approach--touch but the hand of

Ione, and thy weapon shall be as a reed--I will tear thee limb from

limb!'

Suddenly, as he spoke, the place became lighted with an intense and

lurid glow. Bright and gigantic through the darkness, which closed

around it like the walls of hell, the mountain shone--a pile of fire!

Its summit seemed riven in two; or rather, above its surface there

seemed to rise two monster shapes, each confronting each, as Demons

contending for a world. These were of one deep blood-red hue of fire,

which lighted up the whole atmosphere far and wide; but, below, the

nether part of the mountain was still dark and shrouded, save in three

places, adown which flowed, serpentine and irregular, rivers of the

molten lava. Darkly red through the profound gloom of their banks, they

flowed slowly on, as towards the devoted city. Over the broadest there

seemed to spring a cragged and stupendous arch, from which, as from the

jaws of hell, gushed the sources of the sudden Phlegethon. And through

the stilled air was heard the rattling of the fragments of rock,

hurtling one upon another as they were borne down the fiery

cataracts--darkening, for one instant, the spot where they fell, and

suffused the next, in the burnished hues of the flood along which they

floated!

The slaves shrieked aloud, and, cowering, hid their faces. The Egyptian

himself stood transfixed to the spot, the glow lighting up his

commanding features and jewelled robes. High behind him rose a tall

column that supported the bronze statue of Augustus; and the imperial

image seemed changed to a shape of fire!

With his left hand circled round the form of Ione--with his right arm

raised in menace, and grasping the stilus which was to have been his

weapon in the arena, and which he still fortunately bore about him, with

his brow knit, his lips apart, the wrath and menace of human passions

arrested as by a charm, upon his features, Glaucus fronted the Egyptian!

Arbaces turned his eyes from the mountain--they rested on the form of

Glaucus! He paused a moment: 'Why,' he muttered, 'should I hesitate?

Did not the stars foretell the only crisis of imminent peril to which I

was subjected?--Is not that peril past?'

'The soul,' cried he aloud, 'can brave the wreck of worlds and the wrath

of imaginary gods! By that soul will I conquer to the last! Advance,

slaves!--Athenian, resist me, and thy blood be on thine own head! Thus,

then, I regain Ione!'

He advanced one step--it was his last on earth! The ground shook

beneath him with a convulsion that cast all around upon its surface. A

simultaneous crash resounded through the city, as down toppled many a

roof and pillar!--the lightning, as if caught by the metal, lingered an

instant on the Imperial Statue--then shivered bronze and column! Down

fell the ruin, echoing along the street, and riving the solid pavement

where it crashed!--The prophecy of the stars was fulfilled!

The sound--the shock, stunned the Athenian for several moments. When he

recovered, the light still illuminated the scene--the earth still slid

and trembled beneath! Ione lay senseless on the ground; but he saw her

not yet--his eyes were fixed upon a ghastly face that seemed to emerge,

without limbs or trunk, from the huge fragments of the shattered

column--a face of unutterable pain, agony, and despair! The eyes shut

and opened rapidly, as if sense were not yet fled; the lips quivered and

grinned--then sudden stillness and darkness fell over the features, yet

retaining that aspect of horror never to be forgotten!

So perished the wise Magician--the great Arbaces--the Hermes of the

Burning Belt--the last of the royalty of Egypt!

Chapter IX

THE DESPAIR OF THE LOVERS. THE CONDITION OF THE MULTITUDE.

GLAUCUS turned in gratitude but in awe, caught Ione once more in his

arms, and fled along the street, that was yet intensely luminous. But

suddenly a duller shade fell over the air. Instinctively he turned to

the mountain, and beheld! one of the two gigantic crests, into which the

summit had been divided, rocked and wavered to and fro; and then, with a

sound, the mightiness of which no language can describe, it fell from

its burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of fire, down the sides of

the mountain! At the same instant gushed forth a volume of blackest

smoke--rolling on, over air, sea, and earth.

Another--and another--and another shower of ashes, far more profuse than

before, scattered fresh desolation along the streets. Darkness once more

wrapped them as a veil; and Glaucus, his bold heart at last quelled and

despairing, sank beneath the cover of an arch, and, clasping Ione to his

heart--a bride on that couch of ruin--resigned himself to die.

Meanwhile Nydia, when separated by the throng from Glaucus and Ione, had

in vain endeavored to regain them. In vain she raised that plaintive

cry so peculiar to the blind; it was lost amidst a thousand shrieks of

more selfish terror. Again and again she returned to the spot where

they had been divided--to find her companions gone, to seize every

fugitive--to inquire of Glaucus--to be dashed aside in the impatience of

distraction. Who in that hour spared one thought to his neighbor?

Perhaps in scenes of universal horror, nothing is more horrid than the

unnatural selfishness they engender. At length it occurred to Nydia,

that as it had been resolved to seek the sea-shore for escape, her most

probable chance of rejoining her companions would be to persevere in

that direction. Guiding her steps, then, by the staff which she always

carried, she continued, with incredible dexterity, to avoid the masses

of ruin that encumbered the path--to thread the streets--and unerringly

(so blessed now was that accustomed darkness, so afflicting in ordinary

life!) to take the nearest direction to the sea-side.

Poor girl!--her courage was beautiful to behold!--and Fate seemed to

favor one so helpless! The boiling torrents touched her not, save by

the general rain which accompanied them; the huge fragments of scoria

shivered the pavement before and beside her, but spared that frail form:

and when the lesser ashes fell over her, she shook them away with a

slight tremor, and dauntlessly resumed her course.

Weak, exposed, yet fearless, supported but by one wish, she was a very

emblem of Psyche in her wanderings; of Hope, walking through the Valley

of the Shadow; of the Soul itself--lone but undaunted, amidst the

dangers and the snares of life!

Her path was, however, constantly impeded by the crowds that now groped

amidst the gloom, now fled in the temporary glare of the lightnings

across the scene; and, at length, a group of torch-bearers rushing full

against her, she was thrown down with some violence.

'What!' said the voice of one of the party, 'is this the brave blind

girl! By Bacchus, she must not be left here to die! Up, my Thessalian!

So--so. Are you hurt? That's well! Come along with us! we are for the

shore!'

'O Sallust! it is thy voice! The gods be thanked! Glaucus! Glaucus!

Glaucus! have ye seen him?'

'Not I. He is doubtless out of the city by this time. The gods who

saved him from the lion will save him from the burning mountain.'

As the kindly epicure thus encouraged Nydia, he drew her along with him

towards the sea, heeding not her passionate entreaties that he would

linger yet awhile to search for Glaucus; and still, in the accent of

despair, she continued to shriek out that beloved name, which, amidst

all the roar of the convulsed elements, kept alive a music at her heart.

The sudden illumination, the bursts of the floods of lava, and the

earthquake, which we have already described, chanced when Sallust and

his party had just gained the direct path leading from the city to the

port; and here they were arrested by an immense crowd, more than half

the population of the city. They spread along the field without the

walls, thousands upon thousands, uncertain whither to fly. The sea had

retired far from the shore; and they who had fled to it had been so

terrified by the agitation and preternatural shrinking of the element,

the gasping forms of the uncouth sea things which the waves had left

upon the sand, and by the sound of the huge stones cast from the

mountain into the deep, that they had returned again to the land, as

presenting the less frightful aspect of the two. Thus the two streams

of human beings, the one seaward, the other from the sea, had met

together, feeling a sad comfort in numbers; arrested in despair and

doubt.

'The world is to be destroyed by fire,' said an old man in long loose

robes, a philosopher of the Stoic school: 'Stoic and Epicurean wisdom

have alike agreed in this prediction: and the hour is come!'

'Yea; the hour is come!' cried a loud voice, solemn, but not fearful.

Those around turned in dismay. The voice came from above them. It was

the voice of Olinthus, who, surrounded by his Christian friends, stood

upon an abrupt eminence on which the old Greek colonists had raised a

temple to Apollo, now timeworn and half in ruin.

As he spoke there came that sudden illumination which had heralded the

death of Arbaces, and glowing over that mighty multitude, awed,

crouching, breathless--never on earth had the faces of men seemed so

haggard!--never had meeting of mortal beings been so stamped with the

horror and sublimity of dread!--never till the last trumpet sounds,

shall such meeting be seen again! And above those the form of Olinthus,

with outstretched arm and prophet brow, girt with the living fires. And

the crowd knew the face of him they had doomed to the fangs of the

beast--then their victim--now their warner! and through the stillness

again came his ominous voice:

'The hour is come!'

The Christians repeated the cry. It was caught up--it was echoed from

side to side--woman and man, childhood and old age, repeated, not aloud,

but in a smothered and dreary murmur:

'THE HOUR IS COME!'

At that moment, a wild yell burst through the air--and, thinking only of

escape, whither it knew not, the terrible tiger of the desert leaped

amongst the throng, and hurried through its parted streams. And so came

the earthquake--and so darkness once more fell over the earth!

And now new fugitives arrived. Grasping the treasures no longer

destined for their lord, the slaves of Arbaces joined the throng. One

only of all their torches yet flickered on. It was borne by Sosia; and

its light falling on the face of Nydia, he recognized the Thessalian.

'What avails thy liberty now, blind girl?' said the slave.

'Who art thou? canst thou tell me of Glaucus?'

'Ay; I saw him but a few minutes since.'

'Blessed be thy head! where?'

'Crouched beneath the arch of the forum--dead or dying!--gone to rejoin

Arbaces, who is no more!'

Nydia uttered not a word, she slid from the side of Sallust; silently

she glided through those behind her, and retraced her steps to the city.

She gained the forum--the arch; she stooped down--she felt around--she

called on the name of Glaucus.

A weak voice answered--'Who calls on me? Is it the voice of the Shades?

Lo! I am prepared!'

'Arise! follow me! Take my hand! Glaucus, thou shalt be saved!'

In wonder and sudden hope, Glaucus arose--'Nydia still? Ah! thou, then,

art safe!'

The tender joy of his voice pierced the heart of the poor Thessalian,

and she blessed him for his thought of her.

Half leading, half carrying Ione, Glaucus followed his guide. With

admirable discretion, she avoided the path which led to the crowd she

had just quitted, and, by another route, sought the shore.

After many pauses and incredible perseverance, they gained the sea, and

joined a group, who, bolder than the rest, resolved to hazard any peril

rather than continue in such a scene. In darkness they put forth to

sea; but, as they cleared the land and caught new aspects of the

mountain, its channels of molten fire threw a partial redness over the

waves.

Utterly exhausted and worn out, Ione slept on the breast of Glaucus, and

Nydia lay at his feet. Meanwhile the showers of dust and ashes, still

borne aloft, fell into the wave, and scattered their snows over the

deck. Far and wide, borne by the winds, those showers descended upon

the remotest climes, startling even the swarthy African; and whirled

along the antique soil of Syria and of Egypt (Dion Cassius).

Chapter X

THE NEXT MORNING. THE FATE OF NYDIA.

AND meekly, softly, beautifully, dawned at last the light over the

trembling deep!--the winds were sinking into rest--the foam died from

the glowing azure of that delicious sea. Around the east, thin mists

caught gradually the rosy hues that heralded the morning; Light was

about to resume her reign. Yet, still, dark and massive in the

distance, lay the broken fragments of the destroying cloud, from which

red streaks, burning dimlier and more dim, betrayed the yet rolling

fires of the mountain of the 'Scorched Fields'. The white walls and

gleaming columns that had adorned the lovely coasts were no more.

Sullen and dull were the shores so lately crested by the cities of

Herculaneum and Pompeii. The darlings of the deep were snatched from

her embrace! Century after century shall the mighty Mother stretch

forth her azure arms, and know them not--moaning round the sepulchres of

the Lost!

There was no shout from the mariners at the dawning light--it had come

too gradually, and they were too wearied for such sudden bursts of

joy--but there was a low, deep murmur of thankfulness amidst those

watchers of the long night. They looked at each other and smiled--they

took heart--they felt once more that there was a world around, and a God

above them! And in the feeling that the worst was passed, the

overwearied ones turned round, and fell placidly to sleep. In the

growing light of the skies there came the silence which night had

wanted: and the bark drifted calmly onward to its port. A few other

vessels, bearing similar fugitives, might be seen in the expanse,

apparently motionless, yet gliding also on. There was a sense of

security, of companionship, and of hope, in the sight of their slender

masts and white sails. What beloved friends, lost and missed in the

gloom, might they not bear to safety and to shelter!

In the silence of the general sleep, Nydia rose gently. She bent over

the face of Glaucus--she inhaled the deep breath of his heavy

slumber--timidly and sadly she kissed his brow--his lips; she felt for

his hand--it was locked in that of Ione; she sighed deeply, and her face

darkened. Again she kissed his brow, and with her hair wiped from it the

damps of night. 'May the gods bless you, Athenian!' she murmured: 'may

you be happy with your beloved one!--may you sometimes remember Nydia!

Alas! she is of no further use on earth!'

With these words she turned away. Slowly she crept along by the fori,

or platforms, to the farther side of the vessel, and, pausing, bent low

over the deep; the cool spray dashed upward on her feverish brow. 'It

is the kiss of death,' she said 'it is welcome.' The balmy air played

through her waving tresses--she put them from her face, and raised those

eyes--so tender, though so lightless--to the sky, whose soft face she

had never seen!

'No, no!' she said, half aloud, and in a musing and thoughtful tone, 'I

cannot endure it; this jealous, exacting love--it shatters my whole soul

in madness! I might harm him again--wretch that I was! I have saved

him--twice saved him--happy, happy thought: why not die happy?--it is

the last glad thought I can ever know. Oh! sacred Sea! I hear thy

voice invitingly--it hath a freshening and joyous call. They say that in

thy embrace is dishonour--that thy victims cross not the fatal Styx--be

it so!--I would not meet him in the Shades, for I should meet him still

with her! Rest--rest--rest! there is no other Elysium for a heart like

mine!'

A sailor, half dozing on the deck, heard a slight splash on the waters.

Drowsily he looked up, and behind, as the vessel merrily bounded on, he

fancied he saw something white above the waves; but it vanished in an

instant. He turned round again, and dreamed of his home and children.

When the lovers awoke, their first thought was of each other--their next

of Nydia! She was not to be found--none had seen her since the night.

Every crevice of the vessel was searched--there was no trace of her.

Mysterious from first to last, the blind Thessalian had vanished for

ever from the living world! They guessed her fate in silence: and

Glaucus and Ione, while they drew nearer to each other (feeling each

other the world itself), forgot their deliverance, and wept as for a

departed sister.

Chapter The Last

WHEREIN ALL THINGS CEASE LETTER FROM GLAUCUS TO SALLUST, TEN YEARS AFTER

THE DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII.

'Athens.

GLAUCUS to his beloved Sallust--greeting and health!--You request me to

visit you at Rome--no, Sallust, come rather to me at Athens! I have

forsworn the Imperial City, its mighty tumult and hollow joys. In my

own land henceforth I dwell for ever. The ghost of our departed

greatness is dearer to me than the gaudy life of your loud prosperity.

There is a charm to me which no other spot can supply, in the porticoes

hallowed still by holy and venerable shades. In the olive-groves of

Ilyssus I still hear the voice of poetry--on the heights of Phyle, the

clouds of twilight seem yet the shrouds of departed freedom--the

heralds--the heralds--of the morrow that shall come! You smile at my

enthusiasm, Sallust!--better be hopeful in chains than resigned to their

glitter. You tell me you are sure that I cannot enjoy life in these

melancholy haunts of a fallen majesty. You dwell with rapture on the

Roman splendors, and the luxuries of the imperial court. My

Sallust--"non sum qualis eram"--I am not what I was! The events of my

life have sobered the bounding blood of my youth. My health has never

quite recovered its wonted elasticity ere it felt the pangs of disease,

and languished in the damps of a criminal's dungeon. My mind has never

shaken off the dark shadow of the Last Day of Pompeii--the horror and

the desolation of that awful ruin!--Our beloved, our remembered Nydia! I

have reared a tomb to her shade, and I see it every day from the window

of my study. It keeps alive in me a tender recollection--a not

unpleasing sadness--which are but a fitting homage to her fidelity, and

the mysteriousness of her early death. Ione gathers the flowers, but my

own hand wreathes them daily around the tomb. She was worthy of a tomb

in Athens!

'You speak of the growing sect of the Christians in Rome. Sallust, to

you I may confide my secret; I have pondered much over that faith--I

have adopted it. After the destruction of Pompeii, I met once more with

Olinthus--saved, alas! only for a day, and falling afterwards a martyr

to the indomitable energy of his zeal. In my preservation from the lion

and the earthquake he taught me to behold the hand of the unknown God!

I listened--believed--adored! My own, my more than ever beloved Ione,

has also embraced the creed!--a creed, Sallust, which, shedding light

over this world, gathers its concentrated glory, like a sunset, over the

next! We know that we are united in the soul, as in the flesh, for ever

and for ever! Ages may roll on, our very dust be dissolved, the earth

shrivelled like a scroll; but round and round the circle of eternity

rolls the wheel of life--imperishable--unceasing! And as the earth from

the sun, so immortality drinks happiness from virtue, which is the smile

upon the face of God! Visit me, then, Sallust; bring with you the

learned scrolls of Epicurus, Pythagoras, Diogenes; arm yourself for

defeat; and let us, amidst the groves of Academus, dispute, under a

surer guide than any granted to our fathers, on the mighty problem of

the true ends of life and the nature of the soul.

'Ione--at that name my heart yet beats!--Ione is by my side as I write:

I lift my eyes, and meet her smile. The sunlight quivers over Hymettus:

and along my garden I hear the hum of the summer bees. Am I happy, ask

you? Oh, what can Rome give me equal to what I possess at Athens? Here,

everything awakens the soul and inspires the affections--the trees, the

waters, the hills, the skies, are those of Athens!--fair, though

mourning-mother of the Poetry and the Wisdom of the World. In my hall I

see the marble faces of my ancestors. In the Ceramicus, I survey their

tombs! In the streets, I behold the hand of Phidias and the soul of

Pericles. Harmodius, Aristogiton--they are everywhere--but in our

hearts!--in mine, at least, they shall not perish! If anything can make

me forget that I am an Athenian and not free, it is partly the

soothing--the love--watchful, vivid, sleepless--of Ione--a love that has

taken a new sentiment in our new creed--a love which none of our poets,

beautiful though they be, had shadowed forth in description; for mingled

with religion, it partakes of religion; it is blended with pure and

unworldly thoughts; it is that which we may hope to carry through

eternity, and keep, therefore, white and unsullied, that we may not

blush to confess it to our God! This is the true type of the dark fable

of our Grecian Eros and Psyche--it is, in truth, the soul asleep in the

arms of love. And if this, our love, support me partly against the

fever of the desire for freedom, my religion supports me more; for

whenever I would grasp the sword and sound the shell, and rush to a new

Marathon (but Marathon without victory), I feel my despair at the

chilling thought of my country's impotence--the crushing weight of the

Roman yoke, comforted, at least, by the thought that earth is but the

beginning of life--that the glory of a few years matters little in the

vast space of eternity--that there is no perfect freedom till the chains

of clay fall from the soul, and all space, all time, become its heritage

and domain. Yet, Sallust, some mixture of the soft Greek blood still

mingles with my faith. I can share not the zeal of those who see crime

and eternal wrath in men who cannot believe as they. I shudder not at

the creed of others. I dare not curse them--I pray the Great Father to

convert. This lukewarmness exposes me to some suspicion amongst the

Christians: but I forgive it; and, not offending openly the prejudices

of the crowd, I am thus enabled to protect my brethren from the danger

of the law, and the consequences of their own zeal. If moderation seem

to me the natural creature of benevolence, it gives, also, the greatest

scope to beneficence.

'Such, then, O Sallust! is my life--such my opinions. In this manner I

greet existence and await death. And thou, glad-hearted and kindly

pupil of Epicurus, thou... But come hither, and see what enjoyments,

what hopes are ours--and not the splendor of imperial banquets, nor the

shouts of the crowded circus, nor the noisy forum, nor the glittering

theatre, nor the luxuriant gardens, nor the voluptuous baths of

Rome--shall seem to thee to constitute a life of more vivid and

uninterrupted happiness than that which thou so unreasonably pitiest as

the career of Glaucus the Athenian!--Farewell!'

Nearly Seventeen Centuries had rolled away when the City of Pompeii was

disinterred from its silent tomb, all vivid with undimmed hues; its

walls fresh as if painted yesterday--not a hue faded on the rich mosaic

of its floors--in its forum the half-finished columns as left by the

workman's hand--in its gardens the sacrificial tripod--in its halls the

chest of treasure--in its baths the strigil--in its theatres the counter

of admission--in its saloons the furniture and the lamp--in its

triclinia the fragments of the last feast--in its cubicula the perfumes

and the rouge of faded beauty--and everywhere the bones and skeletons of

those who once moved the springs of that minute yet gorgeous machine of

luxury and of life! In the house of Diomed, in the subterranean vaults,

twenty skeletons (one of a babe) were discovered in one spot by the

door, covered by a fine ashen dust, that had evidently been wafted

slowly through the apertures, until it had filled the whole space.

There were jewels and coins, candelabra for unavailing light, and wine

hardened in the amphorae for a prolongation of agonized life. The sand,

consolidated by damps, had taken the forms of the skeletons as in a

cast; and the traveler may yet see the impression of a female neck and

bosom of young and round proportions--the trace of the fated Julia! It

seems to the inquirer as if the air had been gradually changed into a

sulphurous vapor; the inmates of the vaults had rushed to the door, to

find it closed and blocked up by the scoria without, and in their

attempts to force it, had been suffocated with the atmosphere.

In the garden was found a skeleton with a key by its bony hand, and near

it a bag of coins. This is believed to have been the master of the

house--the unfortunate Diomed, who had probably sought to escape by the

garden, and been destroyed either by the vapors or some fragment of

stone. Beside some silver vases lay another skeleton, probably of a

slave.

The houses of Sallust and of Pansa, the Temple of Isis, with the

juggling concealments behind the statues--the lurking-place of its holy

oracles--are now bared to the gaze of the curious. In one of the

chambers of that temple was found a huge skeleton with an axe beside it:

two walls had been pierced by the axe--the victim could penetrate no

farther. In the midst of the city was found another skeleton, by the

side of which was a heap of coins, and many of the mystic ornaments of

the fane of Isis. Death had fallen upon him in his avarice, and Calenus

perished simultaneously with Burbo! As the excavators cleared on

through the mass of ruin, they found the skeleton of a man literally

severed in two by a prostrate column; the skull was of so striking a

conformation, so boldly marked in its intellectual as well as its worse

physical developments, that it has excited the constant speculation of

every itinerant believer in the theories of Spurzheim who has gazed upon

that ruined palace of the mind. Still, after the lapse of ages, the

traveler may survey that airy hall within whose cunning galleries and

elaborate chambers once thought, reasoned, dreamed, and sinned, the soul

of Arbaces the Egyptian.

Viewing the various witnesses of a social system which has passed from

the world for ever--a stranger, from that remote and barbarian Isle

which the Imperial Roman shivered when he named, paused amidst the

delights of the soft Campania and composed this history!