The language in which the hag addressed them was a strange and barbarous Latin, interlarded with many words of some more rude, and ancient dialect.  She did not stir from her seat, but gazed stonily upon them as Glaucus now released Ione of her outer wrapping garments, and making her place herself on a log of wood, which was the only other seat he perceived at hand—­fanned with his breath the embers into a more glowing flame.  The slave, encouraged by the boldness of her superiors, divested herself also of her long palla, and crept timorously to the opposite corner of the hearth.

‘We disturb you, I fear,’ said the silver voice of Ione, in conciliation.

The witch did not reply—­she seemed like one who has awakened for a moment from the dead, and has then relapsed once more into the eternal slumber.

‘Tell me,’ said she, suddenly, and after a long pause, ’are ye brother and sister?’

‘No,’ said Ione, blushing.

‘Are ye married?’

‘Not so,’ replied Glaucus.

‘Ho, lovers!—­ha!—­ha!—­ha!’ and the witch laughed so loud and so long that the caverns rang again.

The heart of Ione stood still at that strange mirth.  Glaucus muttered a rapid counterspell to the omen—­and the slave turned as pale as the cheek of the witch herself.

‘Why dost thou laugh, old crone?’ said Glaucus, somewhat sternly, as he concluded his invocation.

‘Did I laugh?’ said the hag, absently.

‘She is in her dotage,’ whispered Glaucus:  as he said this, he caught the eye of the hag fixed upon him with a malignant and vivid glare.

‘Thou liest!’ said she, abruptly.

‘Thou art an uncourteous welcomer,’ returned Glaucus.

‘Hush! provoke her not, dear Glaucus!’ whispered Ione.

‘I will tell thee why I laughed when I discovered ye were lovers,’ said the old woman.  ’It was because it is a pleasure to the old and withered to look upon young hearts like yours—­and to know the time will come when you will loathe each other—­loathe—­loathe—­ha!—­ha!—­ha!’

It was now Ione’s turn to pray against the unpleasing prophecy.

‘The gods forbid!’ said she.  ’Yet, poor woman, thou knowest little of love, or thou wouldst know that it never changes.’

‘Was I young once, think ye?’ returned the hag, quickly; ’and am I old, and hideous, and deathly now?  Such as is the form, so is the heart.’  With these words she sank again into a stillness profound and fearful, as if the cessation of life itself.

‘Hast thou dwelt here long?’ said Glaucus, after a pause, feeling uncomfortably oppressed beneath a silence so appalling.

‘Ah, long!—­yes.’

‘It is but a drear abode.’

‘Ha! thou mayst well say that—­Hell is beneath us!’ replied the hag, pointing her bony finger to the earth.  ’And I will tell thee a secret—­the dim things below are preparing wrath for ye above—­you, the young, and the thoughtless, and the beautiful.’