LEANDER VISITS A MYSTIC SHRINE
Rebecca made her way homeward in a state of profound bewilderment. By
nature placid, intuitive, and rarely disturbed, her sweet soul, as a rule,
moved with serenity amid the turmoil of life’s experiences and
adversities.
But could it be that the noble Serenus was the guest of that Roman of
tarnished memory? Could light and darkness commingle? It seemed a strange
paradox.
Having not long since returned from the Holy City, she was not aware of
the great change which had taken place in the character back of that stern
face, nor that it now belonged to the Vice Legate of Tarsus.
Since the rescue of Rebecca from the stampede at the great celebration of
the Feast of Weeks in Jerusalem, and the conversation with her benefactor,
Serenus, to her, had stood for everything that was worthy and of good
report. She also remembered his lofty and quiet dignity as he headed the
notable line of captives upon whom she looked down from the house‐top when
they were led to prison by Saulus. The devotion of Serenus to the New
Faith, and the cheerfulness with which he endured persecution for its
sake, had left a picture upon her mind that could never be effaced.
Her wonder increased when she thought not only of the apparent intimacy
between the two, but also at the possible position of Marcius, as
indicated by the imperial equipment. But her wonted serenity was soon
regained. She instinctively felt the power of goodness, and that however
it might be explained, Serenus, in the very nature of the case, must carry
a powerful benediction wherever he went.
She also had noticed Amabel, and although not recognizing her as the
daughter of Gamaliel, inferred that she was the wife of Serenus. As this
conviction flashed upon her, there arose for a single moment a half
unconscious shadow of disappointment, although not admitted even to
herself.
It is not easy for the human mind to regard virtue and nobility
abstractly, or as separate from the personality through which they are
expressed. But the calm, warm sunlight which constantly filled the soul of
Rebecca quickly dispelled any possible mist. While she felt that the few
words Serenus once had spoken to her, and the inspiration of his presence
and heroism, in some way had introduced her to something higher than she
before had known, there was nothing which could be interpreted as of the
nature of personal love. He only had been the instrument in stirring the
strings of her higher nature, peradventure to some invisible vibrations of
the New Faith.
Rebecca always had been an enigma to her people. Though scrupulously
reared in the observance of every requirement of the most orthodox
Judaism, from her very youth there had been within her an unfathomable
reserve. While conforming in every outward requirement to that which was
expected of her, there was a calm but strong undercurrent of freedom, and
a thinly concealed indifference to formalism, which had been a disquietude
to Benoni, and an offence to Saulus. Her sojourn in the Holy City had
perceptibly developed the essence of a new principle in her inner nature,
which before had been little more than latent. Though having but the
slightest contact with the personal exponents of the New Faith and their
outward teaching, she instinctively had felt something of its beauty and
force. But the more it had been repressed by the influences about her, the
more it gathered volume.
There is ever an unseen moral and spiritual atmosphere in which vibrations
are constant. In it are currents and eddies, winds and calms, heat and
cold, as truly as in the meteorological realm of nature. Sensitive souls,
like invisible barometers, feel and register movements and tendencies
which ordinarily are intangible. The spread of pure and spiritual
Christianity during the time of the Primitive Church and immediately
succeeding was an object lesson which all ages since might have studied
with profit. It was perhaps due more to an unseen vital momentum—a
spiritual tidal wave—than the outward teaching of disciples and
missionaries. Unweighed by dogmatism, untrammelled by ecclesiasticism, and
free from rigid formalism, it, as a vital force, went out conquering and
to conquer. It was a new life—good news; but later to be shorn of its
spontaneity, dispossessed of its witness of the Spirit, bereft of its
healing potency for soul and body, and deprived of its innate joyousness
through usurped authority and burdensome accretion. Its very name came to
signify something external in the place of a living principle.
The state chariot which conveyed the little party from the Nereid circled
through the spacious grounds which surrounded the palace of Marcius, and
all alighted at one of the private portals. Serenus and Amabel were
conducted into one of the open courts, where they remained until suitable
apartments were made ready. A small fountain was playing in the centre,
surrounded by flowering plants and beautiful statues.
“Behold we have been led in a path we knew not of!” said Serenus; “and I
am persuaded that good will come of it.”
Upon their arrival, Leander retired to his own rooms in a very unenviable
frame of mind. For some time he had consciously been losing his influence
with Marcius, and their ways were rapidly drifting apart. The official
duties of the Vice Legate were performed with fidelity, and his growing
nobility of character and public commendation had given Leander an illy
concealed, cynical jealousy. But so far the fire had only smouldered. Now
he felt that in the interest and regard of Marcius he was thoroughly
supplanted. Was he, who for so long had been the bosom friend and adviser,
henceforth to be left out of the account? There is a jealousy not born of
sex which may be fed until it grows in intensity almost without limit.
Leander finally resolved upon an interview with his old‐time friend. He
found him unoccupied, and proceeded to unfold his grievances.
“If I may presume somewhat upon thy former friendship, I would have
private converse with thee!”
Marcius noted the thinly concealed suspicion and cynicism which were
stirring the pulse of Leander, but passing them by, quietly replied,—
“Pray unburden thy mind!”
“By Pallas! I begin to distrust my power to solve a riddle! For some time
past a mystical change seems to be coming upon thee which I am unable to
fathom! Thou hast lost thy love of pleasure, and even thy devotion to the
gods. In a word, thou art in danger of becoming a victim of baseless
superstition.”
Marcius was astonished at the bitterness of his words, but retorted with
quiet sarcasm,—
“Thy wonted poetic grace of expression seemeth to have deserted thee! Thy
speech is ungarnished, if not ungracious! If a change hath come over me,
it need be no riddle to thee! As one adds to his years, it is meet that he
should add somewhat to his wisdom.”
“Shades of Pluto! Dost thou call the babbling of fools wisdom? Thou hast
waded in the shallow sophistries of so‐called philosophy until it well
nigh hath made thee an anchorite! Thou hast deserted thine old associates
and pleasures, and art becoming a dreamer. And now, to crown thy folly,
thou hast brought contempt upon thy government and religion by making this
pair of Hebrew fanatics thine honored guests.”
Marcius was unruffled by the sharp thrusts, and listened much as he would
to the scolding of a petulant child.
“Thy chattering doth not in the least move me! I can well dispense with
thy advice, for of late both thy friendliness and wisdom are becoming
visibly tarnished! Would to the gods—or God—that I had more of what thou
art pleased to regard as Hebrew fanaticism! But I would have thee know
that my guests are in no wise like the Hebrews of Tarsus. Their philosophy
is grand, wise, beautiful, and I honor their opinions, and will know more
of their teaching. It will be but a waste of thy breath to try to dissuade
me!”
“And suppose it become known that the Vice Legate of Tarsus hath forsworn
the gods of the city, and set at naught the Roman Pantheon for the worship
of fugitive and unknown gods—or a lone god, as I heard thy paragon,
Serenus, set forth in his teaching! One would think that to a sane Roman
patrician such vulgar drivel and low‐bred association would be
disgusting!”
“Were I not amused at thine audacity, and compassionate of thy shallow
assumption, I should make comment upon thy growls as they deserve. Thy
unwonted denunciation hath even dried the springs of poesy which aforetime
hath flown in a deluge from thy lips.”
“Henceforth I abide no longer under thy roof, which is now devoted to the
shelter of vulgar pretenders who claim all wisdom. By the right arm of
Hercules! thou wilt yet rue the day when thou hast preferred the
friendship of an ass in a lion’s skin to the polish, art, and poetry of
thy Greek companion of many years!
“I spread my sail, and float away
From a shore grown now sterile and hateful;
I end this play, and start to‐day
For freedom, I care not how fateful!”
“Broken loose again! There is nothing here to compel the presence of thy
muse or thyself! I give thee farewell!”
Marcius offered a dignified parting salutation, which Leander turned his
back upon, and hastily left the room.
A few days afterwards there occurred one of those religious upheavals
which at intervals find vent in popular tumult. The number of Jews in
Tarsus had steadily increased, and their intolerant and exclusive spirit,
and the contempt which some of their number poured upon the Tarsian temple
service, had aroused a bitter prejudice and growing hostility. This
feeling, like a hidden fire, for some time had smouldered, only waiting
for some unusual opportunity to burst into open flame. While the Roman
authority and law, at that period, provided for religious toleration in
Tarsus, it could take no cognizance of the intense bitterness, as no overt
act had occurred to warrant interference.
It was a Tarsian holiday, and the occasion of an important festival to
Apollo. For three days two children of the family of one of the priests of
the Temple had been missing, and a rumor obtained circulation among the
lower orders of the people that the Hebrews had stolen them, and
sacrificed their bodies upon an altar for a burnt‐offering. There was no
foundation for the report, but notwithstanding its absurdity, it was
widely accepted.
Tarsus was astir. The streets were picturesque with decoration, and lively
with moving crowds and processions, and all through the day the Temple and
its great garden were thronged with worshippers and pleasure‐seekers.
Every one was in festal costume, and innumerable small companies were
waving banners, garlands, and palm‐branches, and marching to and fro with
shouts and laughter. At the Temple there were various ceremonies, oracular
messages, predictions, and idolatries in progress, all forming a
combination such as only a great Oriental metropolis of the period could
offer.
The brazen gates which led through marble arches into the Temple grounds
were flung wide open, and a continuous human current, seemingly from all
the nations of the earth, poured in. Parallel roads, some for those on
foot and others for horsemen or chariots, led inward toward the intricate
maze of summer‐houses, bowers, ponds, lotos‐groves, and rose‐trees, which
occupied the heart of the great paradisiacal resort. The number and
variety of fountains at play were amazing, and the long rows of statues,
arches, and booths stretched away in the distance in bewildering
profusion. Processions of horsemen in rich costume and brilliant
caparisonment, each carrying offerings for the various altars, swept in to
join the great concourse. All ages, sexes, and conditions lent their
contributions to the great changing panorama of color and beauty. There
were uniformed companies, in white or variegated colors, carrying flags,
garlands, or censers, keeping step to the music of hymns or the rhythm of
flutes and taborets, the combination of intoxicating strains forming a
vast confused symphony.
Upon a broad marble pavement of white and black design near the centre of
the widespread grounds there were groups of gay dancers, the stroke of
whose light sandalled feet kept time to the touch of small drums and
tambourines. With hair floating free, bare shoulders and necks, and robes
of diaphanous texture, the voluptuousness of their movements can scarcely
be told. They were charmers,—priestesses belonging to the Temple, each
having some part in its multiform mystical service. They were chanting a
hymn of Eros.
“Love, sons of earth! I am the Power of Love!
Eldest of all the gods, with Chaos born;
My smile sheds light along the courts above,
My kisses wake the eyelids of the Morn.”
Some of the trees of the groves were large,—tall branching cedars, and
evergreen oaks with glossy luxurious foliage, casting a cool seductive
shade upon the fresh clean grass. There were sycamores, laurels,
mulberries, citron‐trees, and terebinths, whose blossoms loaded the air
with a spicy intoxication. The thickets were full of birds, so tame as to
be fearless. The cooing of turtle‐doves, the song of nightingale, and the
whistle of quail, added to the unending composite of sweet sounds, shapes,
and colors. The exuberance of nature, the gracefulness of art, and all
that the genius of man could invent, combined as if to surfeit the human
senses.
Subtly intermingled with the degeneracy of such an age there was a blind
but ever‐living impulse toward some kind of worship. Man’s religious
proclivities are so strong that their exercise will find a place, even if
it be no higher than his own animal instincts.
From the standpoints of other periods, it is far from easy to unravel the
fundamental strands of life in any given time, and justly interpret its
underlying spirit. The autocratic rule of the sensuous consciousness is
yet everywhere supreme, but its outward manifestations constantly take new
shape. By the unreliable measurements of men, the ethics of one age is
made the standard of judgment for those of others. The radical defect—all‐
prevailing materialism—everywhere remains, but each age shifts its moral
emphasis so that its own methods for the adoration of the lower selfhood
seem good in its own eyes. Though the period in review was eminent for its
moral corruption, the worship of the bodily creature, in some form, after
nineteen hundred years of added experience and supposed wisdom still
remains dominant. Veils of outward legality are everywhere drawn, and
external conformity to undoubted standards more general—but what of the
great underlying sea of human consciousness? The true barometric test of
the moral and spiritual essence of any and all ages is the quality of
thought‐occupation, whether the same be boldly expressed or subtly hidden.
The world is full of veneers, and each eye complacently looks upon those
of its own time, while it ruthlessly strips off all others. The twenty‐
first century will doubtless be as much shocked by the selfishness, pride,
greed, and mad rush for place and power, which pertain to the nineteenth,
as is the latter at the more open corruption of the age under review.
Leander’s break with Marcius thoroughly embittered his morbid jealousy,
and snapped the only cord of outward restraint which in any degree had
held him. As a friend and guest of the Vice Legate, possessed of a dashing
and poetic spirit, he was well known in the gay society of the Cilician
metropolis. Vain of person, and proud of his dramatic accomplishments, he
brought them into exercise on every possible occasion. His delicate
complexion, wavy brown hair, and dark blue eyes, with an easy gracefulness
which characterized every movement, gave him a pleasing personality which
was his special capital. He spent much time at the baths, and commanded
their perfect service. Their oils, polishing, and perfume in some measure
concealed the flight of years under a youthful veneer of pearly whiteness.
But the natural sparkle of his eyes was growing dull, and the open, warm,
and artless temper of earlier life had become clouded with cynicism and
acerbity.
His richly decorated chariot, which was drawn by three snowy white horses
abreast, always drew a gaping crowd as it dashed through the Tarsian
thoroughfares. His especial pride was to be regarded as the _arbiter
elegantiarum_ of the city. His more immediate circle of friends was often
invited to his entertainments, which consisted chiefly of his own
recitations of Greek poetry and tragedy. They frequently became tiresome,
but as his fondness for applause was notorious, it was sarcastically
bestowed _ad nauseam_. He entered with the utmost abandon into every
spectacular display or ceremony, his fondness for dramatic art thereby
receiving exercise and stimulation. Before ordering his chariot for his
visit to the festival he sat down to warm himself with a deep draft of
spiced Falernian. It came strongly to mind that on many similar occasions
he had started with Marcius at his side. Now he was to go alone.
During every hour since their last interview his anger had increased. He,
the life‐long friend, cast off for an obscure Hebrew! Impatience waxed
hot, until his feeling rapidly became absolute hatred. In some way he
would have revenge—bitter revenge. Was there not some possible means by
which he could despoil Marcius of his official position, and rob him of
his reputation? But his popularity and power made it utterly inexpedient
to declare open enmity. Leander would bide his time, and find a plan to
secretly revenge himself, and never rest easy until the downfall of the
Vice Legate was compassed. As for Serenus and Amabel, they were beneath
contempt.
Wrath or jealousy that is nursed grows apace, and the enmity of Leander
would have sanctioned the murder of Marcius, if it could be brought about
without any finger of suspicion being pointed toward him.
But it was time to depart. His chariot was waiting; and seizing the reins
of his noble steeds, he joined the great current which flowed towards the
Temple and its spacious enclosure. Arriving in due time, he entered by the
most prominent triumphal gateway, and after ostentatiously driving several
times around the broad circular highway, left his chariot with an
attendant, in order more freely to enjoy the sights and sounds, and
indulge in the pleasures of the vast enclosure. He found two or three
friends, and with them joined in some of the sports and games. But after a
time, wearying of these, they came upon a large booth richly ornamented
with occult art, having an inscription over the entrance:—
“HOUSE OF MAGIC AND DIVINATION.”
Entering, they found themselves in the spacious atrium, where each visitor
waited his turn, and made his choice as to which of the divers inner
mysteries he would consult. Out of this large reception‐room many portals
opened which penetrated to unknown interiors of enchantment and sorcery.
The peculiar class to which each belonged was indicated by occult emblems
or cabalistic signs inscribed upon the various oval valves that opened
farther inward. An attending magician interpreted them. One led to a
wizard’s cave of spells and incantations; another to realms where converse
with shades was held; another to oracular answers and predictions; another
to charms for healing; another to the furnishing of love philters; and
finally, one was given to curses and horrors.
Leander chose the last named. His hatred towards Marcius flashed up as he
saw the symbols, and he would know the mystery, and perchance an
instrument for enmity.
“I fear neither gods nor men!” he exclaimed; “and I will acquaint myself
with the worst.”
His friends sought enchantments of the milder forms.
He was in an impatient mood, but had not long to wait when the curious
valve leading to the department last named swung open of its own accord,
and a hoarse voice from within, though seemingly very distant, cried,—
“ENTER THOU THE MYSTIC SHRINE!”
He passed in, and the valve closed behind him. He found himself in a dimly
lighted, narrow passage‐way, which he followed, that led under ground in
mazy, sinuous fashion, seemingly without end. He smiled at the slight
weird feeling which stole upon him, but pushed on. He feared nothing, for
he believed nothing. There were no such things as visions, spectres, or
shades. He had come for amusement—or rather, if possible, to find a way of
revenge.
At length the passage widened into a cave of indefinite dimensions. It was
but dimly lighted by a small fire in a recess of jagged rocks. The walls
of the cave in other directions seemed to be composed of an indefinable
mist of unknown depth, upon which flashed a dim tremulous phosphorescence.
Over the fire was suspended a caldron, the contents of which seethed and
bubbled, emitting a pungent vapor that wreathed itself overhead in illy
defined forms that seemed to crawl and leap. Upon a shelf suspended in
mid‐air without visible support, an assortment of tiny phials containing
various colored liquids gleamed with an unearthly light, and near by hung
small bundles of dried herbs and roots. Upon a rough iron tripod stood a
grotesque statue of the Hecate, through whose eyes shone a dull red light,
as if they were heated by an inner flame. Several skeletons and many more
skulls were arranged at different angles, the eyes of which remained in
their places, shining with a red light of their own. Leander was the
cynosure of them all.
He looked about him for a moment, taking in the various details, and then
burst into loud laughter.
“By Bacchus! an artistic combination to impress infants! But where, oh,
where, lingereth the presiding siren? The combination seemeth to run
itself! Come out! Thy caldron needs stirring!”
Then he gave another hearty laugh at his own wit and eloquence. The
reverberations which indefinitely repeated themselves through the distant
passages sounded like a multitudinous mocking chorus.
“Shades of Tophet! the acoustic properties are well provided!”
He gave another loud call for the sorceress in charge. The sound of his
voice seemed split into a hundred fragments—a chaos of weird echoes upon
all keys.
“Go on with your cackling! I welcome every demon that sails his bark upon
the Cocytus!”
But as a female form of gigantic proportions slowly emerged from the
background, his heart gave a leap.
Covering her dishevelled gray locks was a tall, pointed red turban; her
mouth, partly open, showed two irregular rows of long, dark teeth, and her
large stony eyes were fastened upon him with a freezing stare. Her
features were ashy gray and unearthly.
But in spite of appearances, Leander gathered himself together, and with a
chuckle exclaimed,—
“By the thirst of Bacchus! I adjudge this a strong and artistic stage‐
setting for a Greek tragedy!”
Then, striking an attitude, he began, in impassioned style, to recite some
lines from one of the dramas of Sophocles.
After listening a while the horrible gigantic Shape began slowly to turn
away, and exclaimed in hoarse, hollow tones,—
“Enough! I surrender!”
Leander neatly turned the exclamation into a compliment.
“My oratory conquers gods, men, or she‐devils!”
He then addressed the retiring Shape.
“Stay, I pray thee! Thou art not comely, but peradventure thou canst serve
me! I would have none of thy incantations, but thou hast in store a
variety of potions. Art thou skilled in their preparation?”
“For more than twoscore years have I distilled and cunningly concentrated
the occult and deadly forces of nature,” said the Shape with a ghastly
grin. “I am a daughter of the Etrurians, and their wonderful secrets and
enchantments have come down to me from the dim past. I have philters for
the loveless, promises of treasure for the needy, and potions for revenge,
for tragedy, for blight, and for destiny! What wilt thou?”
“Hast thou a blight which will very slowly, but with grim certainty, dull
the reason, destroy the wisdom, and hasten to decay before the wonted time
all the faculties of the Mind?”
The Shape stretched out her long, bony fingers and took one of the small
phials, and holding it before her stony eyes, replied,—
“In color and taste like water; yet he who takes it in any form, in three
years will become a drivelling idiot! The brain! the brain! It slowly
scorches, and nothing can put it out! It will mingle with water or even
Falernian!”
The Shape gave a malicious leer.
“I believe neither in shades, spectres, nor enchantments, but of chemistry
am persuaded! But how can I be assured of what thou sayest?”
“I will give thee a sign of my power!”
“As thou wilt.”
The Shape, taking an empty phial, poured into it a portion of the contents
of several of the dark liquids, and the mixture was clear and colorless.
“By the eyes of yonder Hecate, thou hast power! and now the price of thy
potion?”
“From thee, O dramatic ranter, a full purse of gold, for thou art rich.”
Leander drew from an inner secret fold in his tunic a small purse filled
with gold, and taking the phial, carefully deposited it in the place from
whence he had taken the coin.
He chuckled to himself as he thought of his new‐found secret for revenge
upon Marcius, and was about to turn towards the entrance when the hag
interposed,—
“A mutual oath of secrecy before thou departest.”
Then she grasped his hand with her long, bony fingers, and placing it upon
the head of the Hecate of the burning eyes, covered it with one of her
own.
“Repeat after me!”
Leander repeated the oath.
“May all the gods curse me, if I reveal aught of this transaction!”
Leander turned to go.
“Thou art the first who hath entered here and not quailed! Farewell!”
Leander soon found himself again amid the crowds in the sunshine of the
garden.
Was it a dream?
He thrust his hand under the secret fold of his tunic, and the phial was
there.
It was now late in the afternoon, and the streets, leading from the Temple
and its grounds towards the lower part of the city, were filled with
groups of gay revellers on their return. There was an easy air of careless
enjoyment which possessed all classes and ages. Young men and boys were
waving banners or singing songs, and the flitting forms of women and girls
in picturesque attire, with their ringing, playful laughter, were
everywhere to be seen.
In one of the main thoroughfares where these merry throngs were passing
was the largest Jewish synagogue in Tarsus. During the afternoon there had
been a special religious ceremonial, and the congregation emerged in a
mass just as some of the crowds from the festival were passing by. The
recent growing prejudice, but more especially the rumor of the missing
children, had stirred up a bitter hatred which needed but a spark to cause
an outburst of open warfare.
No greater contrast could be imagined in appearance than that between the
lively votaries of the Tarsian deities, and the stiff, conceited, and
austere Hebrews. The disciples of the synagogue wore long robes with broad
borders and girdles, and mingled here and there with them were priests
with tall cup‐shaped turbans, breastplates, and broad phylacteries. Their
measured pace, solemn countenances, and proud, exclusive bearing seemed
like a spoken rebuke and even an insult to the great current which was
flowing by from the Temple of Apollo. Some who were nearest began to utter
derisive cries against the Israelites.
“Down with the bigots!”
“Behold the murderers, who take children for burnt‐offerings!”
“Drive them from Tarsus!”
“The gods curse them!”
“Woe to the circumcision!”
“Hurl them into the Cydnus!”
These were among the cries which fell upon the ears of the Hebrews as they
poured out of the synagogue. The excitement grew apace, and the rabble
began to close in around them, hurling such missiles as were at hand.
Soon the attack became general.
Turbans, breastplates, phylacteries, and all other distinctive insignia
were stripped off, and many men, women, and children were beaten and
wounded. The _mêlée_, so quickly started, became general, and spread over
a large space. The cry, “Murderers of children!” was taken up in every
direction.
For a while the Jews rallied, and essayed to defend themselves, but being
overwhelmingly outnumbered, began to scatter and flee as best they could.
Some escaped through side streets and lanes, and many were borne down,
bleeding and wounded.
Rebecca was among the number. Though caring little for the ceremonials of
her people, she still outwardly observed them from strength of habit and
association, and in compliance with the earnest requests of her father.
In the great tumult she became separated from all her friends, and twice
was thrown down and trampled upon. At length, with torn garments and her
beautiful hair streaming behind, she darted through a narrow passage into
an open square, still followed by a small rabble of the lowest class.
Marcius had taken no notice of the festival, he and Serenus having gone
upon a drive up the right bank of the Cydnus. They were returning when
rumors of the outbreak came to their ears. Marcius hurried on in order to
exercise his authority in its suppression.
They quickly turned a corner, when at a little distance a dishevelled
woman was seen running rapidly toward them, screaming, and closely
followed by a mob. She was faint and ready to fall; but seeing, though not
recognizing them, besought their aid.
Marcius drove rapidly forward, standing with whip in hand, and with an air
of authority demanded order.
“Back! I say, and leave her alone! Disperse, ye rioters!”
As she came near, Serenus caught a full view of her beautiful face, and
could not be mistaken.
“As I live, it is Rebecca!”
Marcius stopped his horses, announced his office, and the mob quickly
melted away. Then lifting the exhausted Rebecca into the carriage with
them, Marcius drove rapidly to his palace.
They tenderly bore her unconscious form within, and deposited it in the
apartments of Serenus, in the care of Amabel.