in the aperture which was
thus made, Ione beheld an indistinct and pale landscape, which gradually
grew brighter and clearer as she gazed; at length she discovered plainly
trees, and rivers, and meadows, and all the beautiful diversity of the
richest earth. At length, before the landscape, a dim shadow glided; it
rested opposite to Ione; slowly the same charm seemed to operate upon it
as over the rest of the scene; it took form and shape, and lo!--in its
feature and in its form Ione beheld herself!

Then the scene behind the spectre faded away, and was succeeded by the
representation of a gorgeous palace; a throne was raised in the centre
of its hall, the dim forms of slaves and guards were ranged around it,
and a pale hand held over the throne the likeness of a diadem.

A new actor now appeared; he was clothed from head to foot in a dark
robe--his face was concealed--he knelt at the feet of the shadowy
Ione--he clasped her hand--he pointed to the throne, as if to invite her
to ascend it.

The Neapolitan's heart beat violently. 'Shall the shadow disclose
itself?' whispered a voice beside her--the voice of Arbaces.

'Ah, yes!' answered Ione, softly.

Arbaces raised his hand--the spectre seemed to drop the mantle that
concealed its form--and Ione shrieked--it was Arbaces himself that thus
knelt before her.

'This is, indeed, thy fate!' whispered again the Egyptian's voice in her
ear. 'And thou art destined to be the bride of Arbaces.'

Ione started--the black curtain closed over the phantasmagoria: and
Arbaces himself--the real, the living Arbaces--was at her feet.

'Oh, Ione!' said he, passionately gazing upon her, 'listen to one who
has long struggled vainly with his love. I adore thee! The Fates do
not lie--thou art destined to be mine--I have sought the world around,
and found none like thee. From my youth upward, I have sighed for such
as thou art. I have dreamed till I saw thee--I wake, and I behold thee.
Turn not away from me, Ione; think not of me as thou hast thought; I am
not that being--cold, insensate, and morose, which I have seemed to
thee. Never woman had lover so devoted--so passionate as I will be to
Ione. Do not struggle in my clasp: see--I release thy hand. Take it
from me if thou wilt--well be it so! But do not reject me, Ione--do not
rashly reject--judge of thy power over him whom thou canst thus
transform. I, who never knelt to mortal being, kneel to thee. I, who
have commanded