n?

Perhaps it was Ledscha who had him in her power, and, while he was
pondering and forming plans for the best way of conducting
investigations, the dimmed image of the Biamite again returned distinctly
to his mind, and with it that of Arachne and the spider, into which the
goddess transformed the weaver.

Half overcome by sleep, he saw himself, staff in hand, led by Daphne,
cross green meadows and deserts, valleys and mountains, to seek his
friend; yet whenever he fancied he caught sight of him, and Ledscha with
him, in the distance, the spider descended from above and, with magical
speed, wove a net which concealed both from his gaze.

Groaning and deeply disturbed, half awake, he struggled onward, always
toward one goal, to find his Myrtilus again, when suddenly the sound of
the knocker on the entrance door and the barking of Lycas, his Arabian
greyhound, shook the house.

Recalled to waking life, he started up and listened.

Had the men who were to arrest him or inquisitive visitors not allowed
themselves to be deterred even by the late hour?

He listened angrily as the old porter sternly accosted the late guest;
but, directly after, the gray-haired native of the region near the First
Cataract burst into the strange Nubian oaths which he lavished liberally
whenever anything stirred his aged soul.

The dog, which Hermon had owned only a few months, continued to bark; but
above his hostile baying the blind man thought he recognised a name at
whose sound the blood surged hotly into his cheeks. Yet he could scarcely
have heard aright!

Still he sprang from the couch, groped his way to the door, opened it,
and entered the impluvium that adjoined his bedroom. The cool night air
blew upon him from the open ceiling. A strong draught showed that the
door leading from the atrium was being opened, and now a shout, half
choked by weeping, greeted him: "Hermon! My clear, my poor beloved
master!"

"Bias, faithful Bias!" fell from the blind man's lips, and when he felt
the returned slave sink down before him, cover his hand with kisses and
wet it with tears, he raised him in his strong arms, clasped him in a
warm embrace, kissed his checks, and gasped, "And Myrtilus, my Myrtilus,
is he alive?"

"Yes, yes, yes," sobbed Bias. "But you, my lord-blind, blind! Can it be
true?"

When Hermon released him to inquire again about his friend, Bias
stammered: "He isn't faring so badly; but you, you, bereft of light and
also of