Beneath a wide plane-tree, with the cistus and the arbutus clustering round them, the living fountain before, the greensward beneath their feet; the gay cicada, once so dear to Athens, rising merrily ever and anon amidst the grass; the butterfly, beautiful emblem of the soul, dedicated to Psyche, and which has continued to furnish illustrations to the Christian bard, rich in the glowing colors caught from Sicilian skies, hovering about the sunny flowers, itself like a winged flower—­in this spot, and this scene, the brother and the sister sat together for the last time on earth.  You may tread now on the same place; but the garden is no more, the columns are shattered, the fountain has ceased to play.  Let the traveler search amongst the ruins of Pompeii for the house of Ione.  Its remains are yet visible; but I will not betray them to the gaze of commonplace tourists.  He who is more sensitive than the herd will discover them easily:  when he has done so, let him keep the secret.

They sat down, and Nydia, glad to be alone, retired to the farther end of the garden.

‘Ione, my sister,’ said the young convert, ’place your hand upon my brow; let me feel your cool touch.  Speak to me, too, for your gentle voice is like a breeze that hath freshness as well as music.  Speak to me, but forbear to bless me!  Utter not one word of those forms of speech which our childhood was taught to consider sacred!’

’Alas! and what then shall I say?  Our language of affection is so woven with that of worship, that the words grow chilled and trite if I banish from them allusion to our gods.’

‘Our gods!’ murmured Apaecides, with a shudder:  ’thou slightest my request already.’

‘Shall I speak then to thee only of Isis?’

’The Evil Spirit!  No, rather be dumb for ever, unless at least thou canst—­but away, away this talk!  Not now will we dispute and cavil; not now will we judge harshly of each other.  Thou, regarding me as an apostate! and I all sorrow and shame for thee as an idolater.  No, my sister, let us avoid such topics and such thoughts.  In thy sweet presence a calm falls over my spirit.  For a little while I forget.  As I thus lay my temples on thy bosom, as I thus feel thy gentle arm embrace me, I think that we are children once more, and that the heaven smiles equally upon both.  For oh! if hereafter I escape, no matter what peril; and it be permitted me to address thee on one sacred and awful subject; should I find thine ear closed and thy heart hardened, what hope for myself could countervail the despair for thee?  In thee, my sister, I behold a likeness made beautiful, made noble, of myself.  Shall the mirror live for ever, and the form itself be broken as the potter’s clay?  Ah, no—­no—­thou wilt listen to me yet!  Dost thou remember how we went into the fields by Baiae, hand in hand together, to pluck the flowers of spring?  Even so, hand in hand, shall we enter the Eternal Garden, and crown ourselves with imperishable asphodel!’