’Place thy bowl of water on the ground.  Now, then, give me thy napkin, and let me fold up thy face and eyes.’

’Ay! that’s always the custom with these charms.  Not so tight, though:  gently—­gently!’

‘There—­thou canst not see?’

‘See, by Jupiter!  No! nothing but darkness.’

’Address, then, to the spectre whatever question thou wouldst ask him, in a low-whispered voice, three times.  If thy question is answered in the affirmative, thou wilt hear the water ferment and bubble before the demon breathes upon it; if in the negative, the water will be quite silent.’

‘But you will not play any trick with the water, eh?’

’Let me place the bowl under thy feet—­so.  Now thou wilt perceive that I cannot touch it without thy knowledge.’

’Very fair.  Now, then, O Bacchus! befriend me.  Thou knowest that I have always loved thee better than all the other gods, and I will dedicate to thee that silver cup I stole last year from the burly carptor (butler), if thou wilt but befriend me with this water-loving demon.  And thou, O Spirit! listen and hear me.  Shall I be enabled to purchase my freedom next year?  Thou knowest; for, as thou livest in the air, the birds have doubtless acquainted thee with every secret of this house,—­thou knowest that I have filched and pilfered all that I honestly—­that is, safely—­could lay finger upon for the last three years, and I yet want two thousand sesterces of the full sum.  Shall I be able, O good Spirit! to make up the deficiency in the course of this year?  Speak—­Ha! does the water bubble?  No; all is as still as a tomb.—­Well, then, if not this year, in two years?—­Ah!  I hear something; the demon is scratching at the door; he’ll be here presently.—­In two years, my good fellow:  come now, two; that’s a very reasonable time.  What! dumb still!  Two years and a half—­three—­four? ill fortune to you, friend demon!  You are not a lady, that’s clear, or you would not keep silence so long.  Five—­six—­sixty years? and may Pluto seize you!  I’ll ask no more.’  And Sosia, in a rage, kicked down the water over his legs.  He then, after much fumbling and more cursing, managed to extricate his head from the napkin in which it was completely folded—­stared round—­and discovered that he was in the dark.

’What, ho!  Nydia; the lamp is gone.  Ah, traitress; and thou art gone too; but I’ll catch thee—­thou shalt smart for this!’ The slave groped his way to the door; it was bolted from without:  he was a prisoner instead of Nydia.  What could he do?  He did not dare to knock loud—­to call out—­lest Arbaces should overhear him, and discover how he had been duped; and Nydia, meanwhile, had probably already gained the garden-gate, and was fast on her escape.

‘But,’ thought he, ’she will go home, or, at least, be somewhere in the city.  To-morrow, at dawn, when the slaves are at work in the peristyle, I can make myself heard; then I can go forth and seek her.  I shall be sure to find and bring her back, before Arbaces knows a word of the matter.  Ah! that’s the best plan.  Little traitress, my fingers itch at thee:  and to leave only a bowl of water, too!  Had it been wine, it would have been some comfort.’