‘Alas! and truly,’ replied the good-natured but thoughtless Sallust, wiping the tear from his eyes; ’but so shattered are his nerves and frame that I scarcely recognize the brilliant and gay carouser I was wont to know.  Yet, strange to say, he cannot account for the cause of the sudden frenzy that seized him—­he retains but a dim consciousness of what hath passed; and, despite thy witness, wise Egyptian, solemnly upholds his innocence of the death of Apaecides.’

‘Sallust,’ said Arbaces, gravely, ’there is much in thy friend’s case that merits a peculiar indulgence; and could we learn from his lips the confession and the cause of his crime, much might be yet hoped from the mercy of the senate; for the senate, thou knowest, hath the power either to mitigate or to sharpen the law.  Therefore it is that I have conferred with the highest authority of the city, and obtained his permission to hold a private conference this night with the Athenian.  Tomorrow, thou knowest, the trial comes on.’

‘Well,’ said Sallust, ’thou wilt be worthy of thy Eastern name and fame if thou canst learn aught from him; but thou mayst try.  Poor Glaucus!—­and he had such an excellent appetite!  He eats nothing now!’

The benevolent epicure was moved sensibly at this thought.  He sighed, and ordered his slaves to refill his cup.

‘Night wanes,’ said the Egyptian; ‘suffer me to see thy ward now.’

Sallust nodded assent, and led the way to a small chamber, guarded without by two dozing slaves.  The door opened; at the request of Arbaces, Sallust withdrew—­the Egyptian was alone with Glaucus.

One of those tall and graceful candelabra common to that day, supporting a single lamp, burned beside the narrow bed.  Its rays fell palely over the face of the Athenian, and Arbaces was moved to see how sensibly that countenance had changed.  The rich color was gone, the cheek was sunk, the lips were convulsed and pallid; fierce had been the struggle between reason and madness, life and death.  The youth, the strength of Glaucus had conquered; but the freshness of blood and soul—­the life of life—­its glory and its zest, were gone for ever.

The Egyptian seated himself quietly beside the bed; Glaucus still lay mute and unconscious of his presence.  At length, after a considerable pause, Arbaces thus spoke: 

’Glaucus, we have been enemies.  I come to thee alone and in the dead of night—­thy friend, perhaps thy saviour.’

As the steed starts from the path of the tiger, Glaucus sprang up breathless—­alarmed, panting at the abrupt voice, the sudden apparition of his foe.  Their eyes met, and neither, for some moments, had power to withdraw his gaze.  The flush went and came over the face of the Athenian, and the bronzed cheek of the Egyptian grew a shade more pale.  At length, with an inward groan, Glaucus turned away, drew his hand across his brow, sunk back, and muttered: