’One word more—­let me be bold, Ione.  Why thinkest thou so highly of yon dark Egyptian? he hath not about him the air of honest men.  We Greeks learn mankind from our cradle; we are not the less profound, in that we affect no sombre mien; our lips smile, but our eyes are grave—­they observe—­they note—­they study.  Arbaces is not one to be credulously trusted:  can it be that he hath wronged me to thee?  I think it, for I left him with thee; thou sawest how my presence stung him; since then thou hast not admitted me.  Believe nothing that he can say to my disfavor; if thou dost, tell me so at once; for this Ione owes to Glaucus.  Farewell! this letter touches thy hand; these characters meet thine eyes—­shall they be more blessed than he who is their author.  Once more, farewell!’

It seemed to Ione, as she read this letter, as if a mist had fallen from her eyes.  What had been the supposed offence of Glaucus?—­that he had not really loved!  And now, plainly, and in no dubious terms, he confessed that love.  From that moment his power was fully restored.  At every tender word in that letter, so full of romantic and trustful passion, her heart smote her.  And had she doubted his faith, and had she believed another? and had she not, at least, allowed to him the culprit’s right to know his crime, to plead in his defence?—­the tears rolled down her cheeks—­she kissed the letter—­she placed it in her bosom:  and, turning to Nydia, who stood in the same place and in the same posture: 

‘Wilt thou sit, my child,’ said she, ’while I write an answer to this letter?’

‘You will answer it, then!’ said Nydia, coldly.  ’Well, the slave that accompanied me will take back your answer.’

‘For you,’ said Ione, ’stay with me—­trust me, your service shall be light.’

Nydia bowed her head.

‘What is your name, fair girl?’

‘They call me Nydia.’

‘Your country?’

‘The land of Olympus—­Thessaly.’

‘Thou shalt be to me a friend,’ said Ione, caressingly, ’as thou art already half a countrywoman.  Meanwhile, I beseech thee, stand not on these cold and glassy marbles.  There! now that thou art seated, I can leave thee for an instant.’

‘Ione to Glaucus greeting.  Come to me, Glaucus,’ wrote Ione, ’come to me to-morrow.  I may have been unjust to thee; but I will tell thee, at least, the fault that has been imputed to thy charge.  Fear not, henceforth, the Egyptian—­fear none.  Thou sayest thou hast expressed too much—­alas! in these hasty words I have already done so.  Farewell.’

As Ione reappeared with the letter, which she did not dare to read after she had written (Ah! common rashness, common timidity of love!)—­Nydia started from her seat.

‘You have written to Glaucus?’

‘I have.’

‘And will he thank the messenger who gives to him thy letter?’

Ione forgot that her companion was blind; she blushed from the brow to the neck, and remained silent.