Apaecides remained silent and sullen, looking down on the earth, as his
lips quivered, and his breast heaved with emotion.

'Speak to me, my friend,' continued the Egyptian. 'Speak. Something
burdens thy spirit. What hast thou to reveal?'

'To thee--nothing.'

'And why is it to me thou art thus unconfidential?'

'Because thou hast been my enemy.'

'Let us confer,' said Arbaces, in a low voice; and drawing the reluctant
arm of the priest in his own, he led him to one of the seats which were
scattered within the grove. They sat down--and in those gloomy forms
there was something congenial to the shade and solitude of the place.

Apaecides was in the spring of his years, yet he seemed to have
exhausted even more of life than the Egyptian; his delicate and regular
features were worn and colorless; his eyes were hollow, and shone with a
brilliant and feverish glare: his frame bowed prematurely, and in his
hands, which were small to effeminacy, the blue and swollen veins
indicated the lassitude and weakness of the relaxed fibres. You saw in
his face a strong resemblance to Ione, but the expression was altogether
different from that majestic and spiritual calm which breathed so divine
and classical a repose over his sister's beauty. In her, enthusiasm was
visible, but it seemed always suppressed and restrained; this made the
charm and sentiment of her countenance; you longed to awaken a spirit
which reposed, but evidently did not sleep. In Apaecides the whole