h--but I will go no more to that unholy place!'

'How, fool!' said Burbo, in a savage voice, and his heavy brows met
darkly over his fierce and bloodshot eyes; 'how, rebellious! Take care.'

'I have said it,' said the poor girl, crossing her hands on her breast.

'What! my modest one, sweet vestal, thou wilt go no more! Very well,
thou shalt be carried.'

'I will raise the city with my cries,' said she, passionately; and the
color mounted to her brow.

'We will take care of that too; thou shalt go gagged.'

'Then may the gods help me!' said Nydia, rising; 'I will appeal to the
magistrates.'

'Thine oath remember!' said a hollow voice, as for the first time
Calenus joined in the dialogue.

At these words a trembling shook the frame of the unfortunate girl; she
clasped her hands imploringly. 'Wretch that I am!' she cried, and burst
violently into sobs.

Whether or not it was the sound of that vehement sorrow which brought
the gentle Stratonice to the spot, her grisly form at this moment
appeared in the chamber.

'How now? what hast thou been doing with my slave, brute?' said she,
angrily, to Burbo.

'Be quiet, wife,' said he, in a tone half-sullen, half-timid; 'you want
new girdles and fine clothes, do you? Well then, take care of your
slave, or you may want them long. Voe capiti tuo--vengeance on thy
head, wretched one!'

'What is this?' said the hag, looking from one to the other.

Nydia started as by a sudden impulse from the wall against which she had
leaned: she threw herself at the feet of Stratonice; she embraced her
knees, and looking up at her with those sightless but touching eyes:

'O my mistress!' sobbed she, 'you are a woman--you have had sisters--you
have been young like me, feel for me--save me! I will go to those
horrible feasts no more!'

'Stuff!' said the hag, dragging her up rudely by one of those delicate
hands, fit for no harsher labor than that of weaving the flowers which
made her pleasure or her trade; 'stuff! these fine scruples are not for
slaves.'

'Hark ye,' said Burbo, drawing forth his purse, and chinking its
contents: 'you hear this music, wife; by Pollux! if you do not break in
yon colt with a tight rein, you will hear it no more.'

'The girl is tired,' said Stratonice, nodding to Calenus; 'she will be
more docile when you next want her.'

'You! you! who is here?' cried Nydia, casting her eyes round the
apartment with so fearful and straining a survey, that Calen