and threatening the last penalty of the law on all men detaining the Roman a prisoner, or sheltering his murderers.
His hopes were faint, hut he could do no more; and having despatched a full report of the whole case to the Roman General at Alexandria, he waited, impatiently enough, his heart sickened with alternate hopes and fears.
During the next few days he was much disturbed by the sentiments of disaffection which he heard being muttered among the soldiers. Like all ignorant men, they were superstitious, the events which had occurred at Philæ had produced a deep impression on their minds, and they murmured almost openly at Lepidus for having taken them to such a fearful place, and even now for halting in so ill-omened a neighbourhood.
This feeling was much increased by an old beggar-man who constantly haunted the camp. He had attracted the attention of the soldiers by some ordinary tricks of magic, and was constantly telling fortunes and reciting prophecies, all foreboding evil to the cohort, if it stayed in the neighbourhood; and, indeed, foretelling the speedy and utter downfall of the Roman power.
Much grieved and perplexed, Lepidus ordered the beggar to be brought before him, and when he came, taxed him with attempting to incite the soldiers to mutiny, and sternly reminded him that the punishment for such an attempt was death. The old man listened quietly and calmly, crossing his arms and fixing his glittering eye, which seemed strangely familiar to Lepidus, on the Roman officer.
After a pause he spoke—“My lord,” and again the tone struck Lepidus as strangely familiar to his ear, “I serve the gods, and you the Emperor: let us both serve our masters truly. You would have news of Septimius the Centurion? It may be that the gods will permit you to see a vision: shall it be so?”
A slight curl of contempt was on the Roman’s lips as he answered:
“You know the proclamation. I am prepared to fulfil its terms.”
The old man shook himself, like an awakening lion, and again the gesture struck Lepidus as familiar.
“I seek not gold,” he said; “give me your attention, and keep the gold for those that need it.”
“It is well,” said Lepidus; “proceed.”
A small stove was burning in the tent; the old man cast upon the charcoal some drugs that raised a dense smoke, and filled the tent with a heavy perfumed smell.
“Look!” said the old man, pointing to the smoke; and retiring behind Lepidus, he crouched upon the ground.
A circle of light formed itself clearly and well-defined among the smoke, and in its midst Lepidus suddenly saw the image of the bull Apis, as he had seen him once before at Memphis, with all his gorgeous scarlet and gold trappings, and the golden disk between his horns. A moment, and the image suddenly grew smaller and smaller, and vanished from the eyes of the wondering Roman.
Again the circle of light formed, and he saw Osiris seated on his judgment throne, and the human soul being tried before him. There was the child Horus seated on a lotus flower, with his finger at his lips. There was the dog of the infernal regions, panting to devour the wicked; and there was the ape of Thoth, watching the turn of the balance. Again the vision faded.
“These are our gods,” said the beggar. “Now behold thine own.”
The circle formed again, and he saw the Emperor Domitian, his features bloated with intemperance, revelling among the degenerate senators and trembling patricians. The soldier sighed, and the vision faded again.
Again the circle formed, and this time he saw the Centurion Septimius sitting at his tent door, as when we first saw him, and, stranger still, he saw himself in converse with him.
But suddenly, whether it was the perfumes or the excitement that overcame him he never knew, but the circle of light, the old man, the tent spun round and round, and he sank fainting to the ground.
When he awoke from his swoon, the stove was burnt out, the old man was gone, and he hardly knew whether he had been dreaming or not. He felt dull and heavy, and could scarcely rise. His servant entered with a light. He glanced at his finger on which he wore his signet-ring, with which all important despatches must be sealed, and which marked their authenticity—it was gone. He felt in his bosom for the secret orders which the general had entrusted to him rather than to the headlong Septimius—they were gone too. His head still swum round; he could not think, he fell upon his bed, and sank into a long heavy dreamless slumber.
We must now return to Philæ—on the fifth day after Lepidus so hurriedly left it.
Septimius was still alive. A scanty allowance of bread and water was daily furnished him, and his bonds had been somewhat loosed, but he had not seen the light of day since his capture, and his heart sank within him in hopeless despondency. Release seemed impossible, rescue hopeless;—he could see no way out of his calamities but by death. He had never seen or spoken to anyone since his capture; invisible were the hands that had relaxed his bonds, and invisible the attendants who supplied his daily food.
Petamon had been stirring here, there, and everywhere, rousing priests and people, reminding them of old wrongs and old memories, and urging them to join in one strong effort, and expel the Roman despots.
The news of Lepidus’ proclamation had just reached the Island of Philæ. It was the turn of Sheshonk to officiate at the altar of Isis, and, while the incense was burning, he stood for a few moments wrapped in deep thought.
“Petamon is crafty and wise,” so his meditations ran; “but Rome is strong, and we can never resist her. Better swim with the flood of the river, and release that poor Centurion—and the gold, ay, the gold!—and the wrath of the gods, what of that? I have helped the trickery here for so many years that I hardly know whether
