Nydia frowned, and then smiled; she withdrew for a few moments, and returned with the cup containing the beverage.  Glaucus took it from her hand.  What would not Nydia have given then for one hour’s prerogative of sight, to have watched her hopes ripening to effect—­to have seen the first dawn of the imagined love—­to have worshipped with more than Persian adoration the rising of that sun which her credulous soul believed was to break upon her dreary night!  Far different, as she stood then and there, were the thoughts, the emotions of the blind girl, from those of the vain Pompeian under a similar suspense.  In the last, what poor and frivolous passions had made up the daring whole!  What petty pique, what small revenge, what expectation of a paltry triumph, had swelled the attributes of that sentiment she dignified with the name of love! but in the wild heart of the Thessalian all was pure, uncontrolled, unmodified passion—­erring, unwomanly, frenzied, but debased by no elements of a more sordid feeling.  Filled with love as with life itself, how could she resist the occasion of winning love in return!

She leaned for support against the wall, and her face, before so flushed, was now white as snow, and with her delicate hands clasped convulsively together, her lips apart, her eyes on the ground, she waited the next words Glaucus should utter.

Glaucus had raised the cup to his lips, he had already drained about a fourth of its contents, when his eye suddenly glancing upon the face of Nydia, he was so forcibly struck by its alteration, by its intense, and painful, and strange expression, that he paused abruptly, and still holding the cup near his lips, exclaimed: 

’Why, Nydia!  Nydia!  I say, art thou ill or in pain?  Nay, thy face speaks for thee.  What ails my poor child?’ As he spoke, he put down the cup and rose from his seat to approach her, when a sudden pang shot coldly to his heart, and was followed by a wild, confused, dizzy sensation at the brain.  The floor seemed to glide from under him—­his feet seemed to move on air—­a mighty and unearthly gladness rushed upon his spirit—­he felt too buoyant for the earth—­he longed for wings, nay, it seemed in the buoyancy of his new existence, as if he possessed them.  He burst involuntarily into a loud and thrilling laugh.  He clapped his hands—­he bounded aloft—­he was as a Pythoness inspired; suddenly as it came this preternatural transport passed, though only partially, away.  He now felt his blood rushing loudly and rapidly through his veins; it seemed to swell, to exult, to leap along, as a stream that has burst its bounds, and hurries to the ocean.  It throbbed in his ear with a mighty sound, he felt it mount to his brow, he felt the veins in the temples stretch and swell as if they could no longer contain the violent and increasing tide—­then a kind of darkness fell over his eyes—­darkness, but not entire; for through the dim shade he saw the opposite walls