Thus thrown back upon themselves, the more ardent qualities of Glaucus found no vent, save in that overflowing imagination which gave grace to pleasure, and poetry to thought.  Ease was less despicable than contention with parasites and slaves, and luxury could yet be refined though ambition could not be ennobled.  But all that was best and brightest in his soul woke at once when he knew Ione.  Here was an empire, worthy of demigods to attain; here was a glory, which the reeking smoke of a foul society could not soil or dim.  Love, in every time, in every state, can thus find space for its golden altars.  And tell me if there ever, even in the ages most favorable to glory, could be a triumph more exalted and elating than the conquest of one noble heart?

And whether it was that this sentiment inspired him, his ideas glowed more brightly, his soul seemed more awake and more visible, in Ione’s presence.  If natural to love her, it was natural that she should return the passion.  Young, brilliant, eloquent, enamoured, and Athenian, he was to her as the incarnation of the poetry of her father’s land.  They were not like creatures of a world in which strife and sorrow are the elements; they were like things to be seen only in the holiday of nature, so glorious and so fresh were their youth, their beauty, and their love.  They seemed out of place in the harsh and every-day earth; they belonged of right to the Saturnian age, and the dreams of demigod and nymph.  It was as if the poetry of life gathered and fed itself in them, and in their hearts were concentrated the last rays of the sun of Delos and of Greece.

But if Ione was independent in her choice of life, so was her modest pride proportionably vigilant and easily alarmed.  The falsehood of the Egyptian was invented by a deep knowledge of her nature.  The story of coarseness, of indelicacy, in Glaucus, stung her to the quick.  She felt it a reproach upon her character and her career, a punishment above all to her love; she felt, for the first time, how suddenly she had yielded to that love; she blushed with shame at a weakness, the extent of which she was startled to perceive:  she imagined it was that weakness which had incurred the contempt of Glaucus; she endured the bitterest curse of noble natures—­humiliation!  Yet her love, perhaps, was no less alarmed than her pride.  If one moment she murmured reproaches upon Glaucus—­if one moment she renounced, she almost hated him—­at the next she burst into passionate tears, her heart yielded to its softness, and she said in the bitterness of anguish, ‘He despises me—­he does not love me.’

From the hour the Egyptian had left her she had retired to her most secluded chamber, she had shut out her handmaids, she had denied herself to the crowds that besieged her door.  Glaucus was excluded with the rest; he wondered, but he guessed not why!  He never attributed to his Ione—­his queen—­his goddess—­that woman—­like caprice of which the love-poets of Italy so unceasingly complain.  He imagined her, in the majesty of her candour, above all the arts that torture.  He was troubled, but his hopes were not dimmed, for he knew already that he loved and was beloved; what more could he desire as an amulet against fear?