ive yet the breath which I wish not to pass, but burningly to eat
into, the mirror. I wished her to be surrounded by lovers, hollow,
vain, and frivolous (lovers that her nature must despise), in order to
feel the want of love. Then, in those soft intervals of lassitude
that succeed to excitement--I can weave my spells--excite her
interest--attract her passions--possess myself of her heart. For it is
not the young, nor the beautiful, nor the gay, that should fascinate
Ione; her imagination must be won, and the life of Arbaces has been one
scene of triumph over the imaginations of his kind.'

'And hast thou no fear, then, of thy rivals? The gallants of Italy are
skilled in the art to please.'

'None! Her Greek soul despises the barbarian Romans, and would scorn
itself if it admitted a thought of love for one of that upstart race.'

'But thou art an Egyptian, not a Greek!'

'Egypt,' replied Arbaces, 'is the mother of Athens. Her tutelary
Minerva is our deity; and her founder, Cecrops, was the fugitive of
Egyptian Sais. This have I already taught to her; and in my blood she
venerates the eldest dynasties of earth. But yet I will own that of
late some uneasy suspicions have crossed my mind. She is more silent
than she used to be; she loves melancholy and subduing music; she sighs
without an outward cause. This may be the beginning of love--it may be
the want of love. In either case it is time for me to begin my
operations on her fancies and her heart: in the one case, to divert the
source of love to me; in the other, in me to awaken it. It is for this
that I have sought you.'

'And how can I assist you?'

'I am about to invite her to a feast in my house: I wish to dazzle--to
bewilder--to inflame her senses. Our arts--the arts by which Egypt
trained her young novitiates--must be employed; and, under veil of the
mysteries of religion, I will open to her the secrets of love.'

'Ah! now I understand:--one of those voluptuous banquets that, despite
our dull vows of mortified coldness, we, the priests of Isis, have
shared at thy house.'

'No, no! Thinkest thou her chaste eyes are ripe for such scenes? No;
but first we must ensnare the brother--an easier task. Listen to me,
while I give you my instructions.'

Chapter V

MORE OF THE FLOWER-GIRL. THE PROGRESS OF LOVE.

THE sun shone gaily into that beautiful chamber in the house of Glaucus,
which I have before said is now called the 'Room of Leda'. The