‘Be not alarmed,’ said the Egyptian, ‘the light will rise instantly.’  While he so spoke, a soft, and warm, and gradual light diffused itself around; as it spread over each object, Ione perceived that she was in an apartment of moderate size, hung everywhere with black; a couch with draperies of the same hue was beside her.  In the centre of the room was a small altar, on which stood a tripod of bronze.  At one side, upon a lofty column of granite, was a colossal head of the blackest marble, which she perceived, by the crown of wheat-ears that encircled the brow, represented the great Egyptian goddess.  Arbaces stood before the altar:  he had laid his garland on the shrine, and seemed occupied with pouring into the tripod the contents of a brazen vase; suddenly from that tripod leaped into life a blue, quick, darting, irregular flame; the Egyptian drew back to the side of Ione, and muttered some words in a language unfamiliar to her ear; the curtain at the back of the altar waved tremulously to and fro—­it parted slowly, and 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.