At deepest night, then, when the streets were hushed, and the high moon only beheld his devotions, he stole to that temple of his heart—­her home; and wooed her after the beautiful fashion of his country.  He covered her threshold with the richest garlands, in which every flower was a volume of sweet passion; and he charmed the long summer night with the sound of the Lydian lute:  and verses, which the inspiration of the moment sufficed to weave.

But the window above opened not; no smile made yet more holy the shining air of night.  All was still and dark.  He knew not if his verse was welcome and his suit was heard.

Yet Ione slept not, nor disdained to hear.  Those soft strains ascended to her chamber; they soothed, they subdued her.  While she listened, she believed nothing against her lover; but when they were stilled at last, and his step departed, the spell ceased; and, in the bitterness of her soul, she almost conceived in that delicate flattery a new affront.

I said she was denied to all; but there was one exception, there was one person who would not be denied, assuming over her actions and her house something like the authority of a parent; Arbaces, for himself, claimed an exemption from all the ceremonies observed by others.  He entered the threshold with the license of one who feels that he is privileged and at home.  He made his way to her solitude and with that sort of quiet and unapologetic air which seemed to consider the right as a thing of course.  With all the independence of Ione’s character, his heart had enabled him to obtain a secret and powerful control over her mind.  She could not shake it off; sometimes she desired to do so; but she never actively struggled against it.  She was fascinated by his serpent eye.  He arrested, he commanded her, by the magic of a mind long accustomed to awe and to subdue.  Utterly unaware of his real character or his hidden love, she felt for him the reverence which genius feels for wisdom, and virtue for sanctity.  She regarded him as one of those mighty sages of old, who attained to the mysteries of knowledge by an exemption from the passions of their kind.  She scarcely considered him as a being, like herself, of the earth, but as an oracle at once dark and sacred.  She did not love him, but she feared.  His presence was unwelcome to her; it dimmed her spirit even in its brightest mood; he seemed, with his chilling and lofty aspect, like some eminence which casts a shadow over the sun.  But she never thought of forbidding his visits.  She was passive under the influence which created in her breast, not the repugnance, but something of the stillness of terror.

Arbaces himself now resolved to exert all his arts to possess himself of that treasure he so burningly coveted.  He was cheered and elated by his conquests over her brother.  From the hour in which Apaecides fell beneath the voluptuous sorcery of that fete which we have described, he felt his empire over the young priest triumphant and insured.  He knew that there is no victim so thoroughly subdued as a young and fervent man for the first time delivered to the thraldom of the senses.