'What caused that strange suspicion and the piercing cry? None other than that by some peculiar affinity I realized that it was she that bore me into this world.
'Oh that I could have heard the end of the story! Cruel destiny shattered me at the harbour mouth, and I lie stranded a lonely wreck on a bleak shore and tainted with rebellion. Shall I fail now? No; Saronia shall build another self out of the shattered parts. I will arise, shake the stupor from me, stretch out my arms into the darkness. I will robe for divination,' and pointing her finger towards the dead lamp, it sprang into flame, casting a glare around the room.
She arose, cast aside her snowy dress of whitened silk, draped herself in darkest shade, girt her waist with a diamond zone black as night, over her shoulders a mantle hung—a mantle of sable hue studded with stars of silver and gold. On her breast she wore the Ephesian symbols of Air and Water, Earth and Life, and Death. Her eyes shot glances like serpents at war, her bosom was upheaved with the strongest emotion, and she moved to the place where the burning lamp stood, seized it, and stood by an altar raised to the goddess of Hades.
For a moment only was she motionless; then she raised high aloft her jewelled hands, brought them to her lips, kissed them to the Queen of Heaven, and stretched them earthwards to the underworld—to Hecate, the Queen of Hell. Her head lay back; her eyes shone out with mystic sheen; her raven tresses trailed the floor; her gloomy garments lay in graceful folds, dark as the midnight sky without a star or moon, and standing thus, she invoked the goddess Hecate.
This done, she lit the altar's sacred fire, and incense burnt until the room was filled with odour and the light from the golden lamp grew dim.
Her lips parted, and a silvery voice issued, murmuring softly:
Spirits of the mighty ocean,
Ye who lie beneath the waters,
Down—down—fathoms deep!
Ye who roam 'twixt here and Sidon,
Ye who lure the ships to ruin,
Ye who haunt the fated vessel,
Lighting up her masts and cordage
With your quenchless tongues of fire;
Stormy petrels of the sea-foam,
Swiftest of your countless legions,
Appear! Appear!
'Ye are come! Hear me!
'A Roman bore from Britons' land, stole from thence with artful wiles, a maiden blessed with rarest beauty—cheeks of olive, raven hair, eyes of darkest midnight hue, soul as pure as the morning light. He took her to Sidon. He left her—he left her and her child. Troop your way with speed to Sidon. Solve the story which I tell you. Bring me answer from Phœnicia.'
The spirits of the deep bent low their shadowy forms; one by one quickly snatched a grain of burning incense from the altar fire, placed the sparks upon their awful brows, rose together, met the storm-wind howling fiercely, passed it faster than conception, skimmed the foaming crests of billows, swooped again o'er struggling biremes with their crews of doomed seamen. Flew they on with awful swiftness, till the air waves left behind them wound the earth in many circles, till the silent city Sidon slept beneath their hovering pinions; glanced their message to the spirit—Spirit Prince of Ashtoreth. Gained their answer, sailed they westward to Ionia, faster than the coming day-dawn; stood before the great Saronia; hailed her priestess of Diana; whispered forth with frightful meaning: