Yet, withal, he felt that uneasiness and apprehension which attended upon the chance of detection, even when the criminal is insensible to the voice of conscience—­that vague terror of the consequences of crime, which is often mistaken for remorse at the crime itself.  The buoyant air of Campania weighed heavily upon his breast; he longed to hurry from a scene where danger might not sleep eternally with the dead; and, having Ione now in his possession, he secretly resolved, as soon as he had witnessed the last agony of his rival, to transport his wealth—­and her, the costliest treasure of all, to some distant shore.

‘Yes,’ said he, striding to and fro his solitary chamber—­’yes, the law that gave me the person of my ward gives me the possession of my bride.  Far across the broad main will we sweep on our search after novel luxuries and inexperienced pleasures.  Cheered by my stars, supported by the omens of my soul, we will penetrate to those vast and glorious worlds which my wisdom tells me lie yet untracked in the recesses of the circling sea.  There may this heart, possessed of love, grow once more alive to ambition—­there, amongst nations uncrushed by the Roman yoke, and to whose ear the name of Rome has not yet been wafted, I may found an empire, and transplant my ancestral creed; renewing the ashes of the dead Theban rule; continuing in yet grander shores the dynasty of my crowned fathers, and waking in the noble heart of Ione the grateful consciousness that she shares the lot of one who, far from the aged rottenness of this slavish civilization, restores the primal elements of greatness, and unites in one mighty soul the attributes of the prophet and the king.’  From this exultant soliloquy, Arbaces was awakened to attend the trial of the Athenian.

The worn and pallid cheek of his victim touched him less than the firmness of his nerves and the dauntlessness of his brow; for Arbaces was one who had little pity for what was unfortunate, but a strong sympathy for what was bold.  The congenialities that bind us to others ever assimilate to the qualities of our own nature.  The hero weeps less at the reverses of his enemy than at the fortitude with which he bears them.  All of us are human, and Arbaces, criminal as he was, had his share of our common feelings and our mother clay.  Had he but obtained from Glaucus the written confession of his crime, which would, better than even the judgment of others, have lost him with Ione, and removed from Arbaces the chance of future detection, the Egyptian would have strained every nerve to save his rival.  Even now his hatred was over—­his desire of revenge was slaked:  he crushed his prey, not in enmity, but as an obstacle in his path.  Yet was he not the less resolved, the less crafty and persevering, in the course he pursued, for the destruction of one whose doom was become necessary to the attainment of his objects:  and while, with apparent reluctance and compassion, he gave against