“You are wishing a kid for Bacchus, sir,” said the man to him as he was running his eye over the goats. On Agellius answering in the negative, he said in a clownish way, “He who does not sacrifice to Bacchus does not sacrifice goats.”

Agellius, bearing in mind Cæcilius’s directions, saw of course there was something in the words which did not meet the ear, and answered carelessly, “He who does not sacrifice, does not sacrifice to Bacchus.”

“True,” said the man, “but perhaps you prefer a lamb for a sacrifice.”

Agellius replied, “If it is the right one; but the one I mean was slain long since.”

The man, without any change of manner, went on to say that there was an acquaintance of his not far up the rock, who could perhaps satisfy him on the point. He said, “Follow those wild olives, though the path seems broken, and you will come to him at the nineteenth.”

Agellius set out, and never was path so untrue to its own threats. It seemed ending in abrupt cliffs every turn, but never fulfilled the anticipation; that is, while he kept to the olive-trees. After ascending what was rather a flight of marble steps, washed and polished by the winter torrents, than a series of crags, he fulfilled the number of trees, and looked round at the man sitting under it. O the joy and surprise! it was his old servant Aspar.

“You are safe, then, Aspar,” he said, “and I find you here. O what a tender Providence!”

“I have taken my stand here, master,” returned Aspar, “day after day, since I got here, in hopes of seeing you. I could not get back to you from Jucundus’s that dreadful morning, and so I made my way here. Your uncle sent for you in my presence, but at the time I did not know what it meant. I was able to escape.”

“And now for Cæcilius,” said Agellius.