The sound of wheels caught his ear; and a cart drawn by white oxen, and loaded with vegetables, passed through the streets. By its side walked an ox-driver, with naked legs browned by the sun, with sandals on his feet, and clothed in a kind of a shirt with a belt round the waist. He wore a conical straw hat; its point thrown behind the neck, and fastened by a button. His head was of a type unheard of to-day: his low forehead covered with hard bunches, his hair crisp and black, his nose straight, his eyes calm as those of an ox; and his neck like that of a Hercules. He touched the oxen gravely with his stick, with a pose which would have put Ingres into an ecstasy of delight.
The ox-driver saw Octavio, and seemed surprised; but he went on his way. Once he turned his head; but, finding no explanation for the strange appearance, he plodded steadily on, too stupid to examine more closely.
Some peasants passed also, driving before them asses loaded with wine. They were as different from the peasants of to-day as black is from white.
Gradually the streets became filled with people. Octavio's feelings had changed. Just now he had been a prey to an unknown fear amongst the shadows and spectres, but his vague terror was changed to stupefaction: he could no longer doubt the evidence of his senses, but nevertheless what he saw was perfectly incredible. Hardly convinced, he tried by noticing the smallest details to prove to himself that he was not the victim of an hallucination. These were not phantoms which walked by him, for the sun shone upon them, and made their reality undeniable; and their shadows, elongated by the height of the sun, were thrown upon the walls and sidewalks.
Octavio did not understand what was happening to him, but still was filled with delight to see one of his most cherished dreams fulfilled. He resisted no longer, and gave himself up to the enjoyment of it, without pretending to account for it. He said to himself that since, by the aid of some mysterious power, he was allowed to live in a century which had long disappeared, he would not lose time by seeking for a solution of an incomprehensible problem; and he continued bravely on his way, looking to right and left at this spectacle, so old and so new for him. But to what epoch in the life of Pompeii was he translated? An inscription upon a wall told him the name of the public personages, and he saw that it was at the beginning of the reign of Titus; that is, in the beginning of the year 79 of our era. A sudden idea crossed Octvaio's mind: the woman whose imprint he had fallen in love with at Naples must have lived at this time, since the eruption of Vesuvius, in which she had perished, was on the 24th of August of this same year; he might then find her, see her, speak to her. The insane desire that the sight of this lava cast had caused him would be perhaps satisfied, for nothing could be impossible to a love which had caused the centuries to roll back.
While these thoughts were passing through Octavio's mind, some beautiful young girls passed on their way to the fountain, supporting urns upon their heads with the tips of their white fingers. Some patricians, with white togas bordered with purple bands, followed by their clients, went towards the forum. Buyers pressed around the stalls, each stall having its proper design in sculpture or painting.
While walking along the sidewalks
