now, untasted, and choose the grave as the wiser part."

"The beautiful goblet! What a pity to break it!" said Sibyl, with her
characteristic malign and mysterious smile. "You cannot find it in your
heart to do it."

"I could,--I can. So thou wilt not drink with me?"

"Do you know what you ask?" said Sibyl. "I am a being that sprung up, like
this flower, out of a grave; or, at least, I took root in a grave, and,
growing there, have twined about your life, until you cannot possibly
escape from me. Ah, Septimius! you know me not. You know not what is in my
heart towards you. Do you remember this broken miniature? would you wish
to see the features that were destroyed when that bullet passed? Then look
at mine!"

"Sibyl! what do you tell me? Was it you--were they your features--which
that young soldier kissed as he lay dying?"

"They were," said Sibyl. "I loved him, and gave him that miniature, and the
face they represented. I had given him all, and you slew him."

"Then you hate me," whispered, Septimius.

"Do you call it hatred?" asked Sibyl, smiling. "Have I not aided you,
thought with you, encouraged you, heard all your wild ravings when you
dared to tell no one else? kept up your hopes; suggested; helped you with
my legendary lore to useful hints; helped you, also, in other ways, which
you do not suspect? And now you ask me if I hate you. Does this look like
it?"