"Now, Conscript Fathers, that I may solemnly abjure and deprecate the just reproaches of my country, listen, I pray you, earnestly to what I say, and commit it deeply to your memories and minds. For if my country, who is much dearer to me than my life, if all Italy, if the whole commonwealth should thus expostulate with me, 'What dost thou, Marcus Tullius? Him, whom thou hast proved to be my enemy, whom thou seest the future leader in the war against me, whom thou knowest even now the expected general in the camp of my foes—him, the author of every crime, the head of this conspiracy, the summoner of insurgent slaves, and ruined citizens—him wilt thou suffer to go forth, and in such guise, that he shall not be as one banished from the walls, but rather as one let loose to war against the city? Wilt thou not, then, command that he shall be led away to prison, that he shall be hurried off to death, that he shall be visited with the last torments of the law? What is it, that dissuades thee? Is it the custom of thine ancestors? Not so—for many times in this republic have men, even in private stations, inflicted death on traitors!—Is it the laws, enacted, concerning the punishment of Roman citizens? Not so—for never, in this city, have rebels against the commonwealth been suffered to retain the rights of Citizens or Romans! Dost thou shrink from the odium of posterity? If it be so, in truth, thou dost repay great gratitude unto the Roman people, who hath elevated thee, a man known by thine own actions only, commended by no ancestral glory, so rapidly, through all the grades of honor, to this most high authority of consul; if in the fear of any future odium, if in the dread of any present peril, thou dost neglect the safety of the citizens! Again, if thou dost shrink from enmity, whether dost deem most terrible, that, purchased by a severe and brave discharge of duty, or that, by inability and shameful weakness? Or, once more, when all Italy shall be waste with civil war, when her towns shall be demolished, her houses blazing to the sky, dost fancy that thy good report shall not be then consumed in the fierce glare of enmity and odium?'

"To these most solemn appeals of my country, and to the minds of those men who think in likewise, I will now make brief answer. Could I have judged it for the best, O Conscript Fathers, that Catiline should have been done to death, then would I not have granted one hour's tenure of existence to that gladiator. For if the first of men, noblest of citizens, were graced, not polluted, by the blood of Saturninus, and the Gracchi, and Flaccus, and many more in olden time, there surely is no cause why I should apprehend a burst of future odium for taking off this parricide of the republic. Yet if such odium did inevitably impend above me, I have ever been of this mind, that I regard that hatred which is earned by honorable duty not as reproach, but glory! Yet there are some in this assembly, who either do not see the perils which are imminent above us, or seeing deny their eyesight. Some who have nursed the hopes of Catiline by moderate decrees; and strengthened this conspiracy from its birth until now, by disbelieving its existence—and many more there are, not of the wicked only, but of the inexperienced, who, if I should do justice upon this man, would raise a cry that I had dealt with him cruelly, and as a regal tyrant.

"Now I am well assured that, if he once arrive, whither he means to go, at the camp of Manlius, there will be none so blind as not to see the reality of this conspiracy, none so wicked as to deny it. But on the other hand, were this man slain, alone, I perceive that this ruin of the state might indeed be repressed for a season, but could not be suppressed for ever—while, if he cast himself forth, and lead his comrades with him, and gather to his host all his disbanded desperate outlaws, not only will this full grown pestilence of Rome be utterly extinguished and abolished, but the very seed and germ of all evil will be extirpated for ever.

"For it is a long time, O Conscript Fathers, that we have been dwelling amid the perils and stratagems of this conspiracy. And I know not how it is that the ripeness of all crime, the maturity of ancient guilt and frenzy, hath burst to light at once during my consulship. But, this I know, that if from so vast a horde of assassins and banditti this man alone be taken off, we may perchance be relieved for some brief space, from apprehension and dismay, but the peril itself will strike inward, and settle down into the veins and vitals of the commonwealth. As oftentimes, men laboring under some dread disease, if, while tossing in feverish heat, they drink cold water, will seem indeed to be relieved for some brief space, but are thereafter much more seriously and perilously afflicted, so will this ulcer, which exists in the republic, if relieved by the cutting off this man, grow but the more inveterate, the others left alive. Wherefore, O Conscript Fathers, let the wicked withdraw themselves, let them retire from among the good, let them herd together in one place, let them, in one word, as often I have said before, be divided from us by the city wall. Let them cease to plot against the consul in his own house, to stand about the tribunal of the city prtor deterring him from justice, to beset even the senate house with swords, to prepare blazing brands and fiery arrows for the conflagration of the city. Let it, in one word, be borne as an inscription upon the brow of every citizen, what are his sentiments toward the republic. This I can promise you, O Conscript Fathers, that there shall be such diligence in us consuls, such valor in the Roman knights, such unanimity in all good citizens, that you shall see, Catiline once departed, all that is secret exposed, all that is dark brought to light, all that is dangerous put down, all that is guilty punished. Under these omens, Catiline, to the eternal welfare of the state, to thine own ruin and destruction, to the perdition of all those who have linked themselves with thee in this league of infamy and parricide, go forth to thine atrocious and sacrilegious warfare! And do thou Jove, who wert consecrated by Romulus under the same auspices with this city, whom we truly hail as the Stator, and supporter of this city, of this empire, chase forth this man, and this man's associates, from thine own altars, and from the shrines of other Gods, from the roofs and hearths of the city, from the lives and fortunes of the citizens, and consummate the solemn ruin of all enemies of the good, all foes of their country, all assassins of Italy, linked in one league of guilt and bond of infamy, living or dead, by thine eternal torments."

The dread voice ceased—the terrible oration ended.

And instantly with flushed cheek, and glaring eye, and the foam on his gnashed teeth, fierce, energetical, undaunted, Catiline sprang to his feet to reply.

But a deep solemn murmur rose on all sides, deepening, swelling into a vast overwhelming conclamation—"Down with the Traitor—away with the Parricide!"

But unchecked by this awful demonstration of the popular mind, he still raised his voice to its highest pitch, defying all, both gods and men, till again it was drowned by that appalling torrent of scorn and imprecation.

Then, with a furious gesture, and a yelling voice that rose clear above all the din and clamor,

"Since," he exclaimed, "my enemies will drive me headlong to destruction I will extinguish the conflagration which consumes me in their universal ruin!"

And pursued by the yells, and groans, and curses of that great concourse, and hunted by wilder furies within his own dark soul, the baffled Traitor rushed precipitately homeward.



CHAPTER VI.

THE FLIGHT.

Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit. CICERO.

His heart was a living hell, as he rushed homeward. Cut off on every side, detected, contemned, hated, what was left to the Traitor?

To retrace his steps was impossible,—nor, if possible, would his indomitable pride have consented to surrender his ambitious schemes, his hopes of vengeance.

He rushed homeward; struck down a slave, who asked him some officious question; spurned Orestilla out of his way with a bitter earnest curse; barred himself up in his inmost chamber, and remained there alone one hour.

One hour; but in that hour what years, what ages of time, what an eternity of agony, was concentrated!

For once in many years he sat still, motionless, silent, while thought succeeded thought, and passion passion, with indescribable rapidity and vividness.

In that one hour all the deeds of his life passed before him, from his wild and reckless boyhood to his atrocious and dishonored manhood.

The victims of his fiendish passions seemed to fleet, one by one, before his eyes, with deathlike visages and ghastly menace.

The noble virgin, whom he had first dishonored, scarcely as yet a boy, pointed with bloody fingers to the deep self-inflicted wound, which yawned in her snowy bosom.

The vestal, who had broken through all bounds of virtue, piety, and honor, sacrificed soul and body to his unpitying lust, gazed at him with that unearthly terror in her eyes, which glared from them as they looked their last at earth and heaven, when she descended, young and lovely, into a living grave.

The son, whom he had poisoned, to render his house vacant for unhallowed nuptials, with his whole frame convulsed in agony, and the sardonic grin of death on his writhing lips, frowned on him.

His brother, who had drawn life from the same soft bosom, but whose kindred blood had pleaded vainly against the fratricidal dagger, frowned on him.

His sister's husband, that mild and blameless knight, whose last breath was spent in words of peace and pardon to his slayer, now frowned on him.

The stern impassive face of Marius Gratidianus, unmoved alike by agony or insult, frowned on him, in the serene dignity of sustaining virtue.

Men of all ranks and ages, done to death by his hand or his head, by poison, by the knife, by drowning, by starvation—women deceived or violated, and then murdered, while their kisses were yet warm on his lips—infants tortured to death in the very wantonness of cruelty, and crime that must have been nigh akin to madness, gibbered, and glared upon him.

These things would seem impossible, they are in truth incredible, but they are true beyond the possibility of cavil.

He was indeed one of those unaccountable and extraordinary monsters, who, thanks to nature! appear but once in many ages, to whom sin is dear for its own naked self, to whom butchery(8) is a pastime, and blood and agonies and tears a pleasurable excitement to their mad morbid appetites.

And in this hour of downfall, one by one, did his fancy conjure up before him the victims of his merciless love, his merciless hatred—both alike, sure and deadly.

It was a strange combination of mind, for there must have been in the spirit that evoked these phantoms of the conscience, something of remorse, if not of repentance. Pale, ghastly, grim, reproachful, they all seemed to him to be appealing to the just heavens for justice and revenge. Yet there was even more of triumph and proud self-gratulation in his mood, than of remorse for the past, or of apprehension for the future.

As he thought of each, as he thought of all, he in some sort gloated over the memory of his success, in some sort derived confidence from the very number of his unpunished crimes.

"They crossed me," he muttered to himself, "and where are they?—My fate cried out for their lives, and their lives were forfeit. Who ever stood in my path, that has not perished from before my face? Not one! Who ever strove with me, that has not fallen? who ever frowned upon me, that has not expiated the bended brow by the death-grin?—Not one! not one! Scores, hundreds, have died for thwarting me! but who of men has lived to boast of it!—Not one!"

He rose from his seat, stalked slowly across the room, drew his hand across his brow twice, with a thoughtful gesture, and then said,

"Cicero! Cicero! Better thou never hadst been born! Better—but it must be—my Fate, my fate demands it, and neither eloquence nor wisdom, virtue nor valor, shall avail to save thee. These were brave, beautiful, wise, pious, eloquent; and what availed it to them? My Fate, my fate shall prevail! To recede is to perish, is to be scorned—to advance is to win—to win universal empire," and he stretched out his hand, as if he clutched an imaginary globe—"to win fame, honor, the applause of ages—for with the people—the dear people—failure alone and poverty are guilt—success, by craft or crime, success is piety and virtue!—On! Catiline! thy path is onward still, upward, and onward! But not here!"

Then he unbarred the door, "What ho, Chrea!" and prompt, at the word, the freedman entered. "Send out my trustiest slaves, summon me hither instantly Lentulus and the rest of those, who supped here on the Calends. Ha! the Calends." He repeated the word, as if some new idea had struck him, on the mention of that day, and he paused thoughtfully. "Aye! Paullus Arvina! I had well nigh forgotten—I have it; Aulus is the man; he hath some private grudge at him! and beside those," he added, again addressing the freedman, "go thyself and bring Aulus Fulvius hither, the son of the Senator—him thou wilt find with Cethegus, the others at the house of Decius Brutus, near the forum. They dine with Sempronia. Get thee gone, and beshrew thy life! tarry not, or thou diest!"

The man quitted the room in haste; and Catiline continued muttering to himself—"Aye! but for that cursed boy, we should have had Prneste on the Calends! He shall repent it, ere he die, and he shall die too; but not yet—not till he is aweary of his very life, and then, by tortures that shall make the most weary life a boon. I have it all, the method, and the men! Weak fool, thou better hadst been mine."

Then turning to the table he sat down, and wrote many letters, addressed to men of Consular dignity, persons of worth and honor, declaring that, borne down on all sides by false accusations, and helpless to oppose the faction of his enemies, he yielded to the spite of fortune, and was departing for Marseilles a voluntary exile, not conscious of any crime, but careful of the tranquillity of the republic, and anxious that no strife should arise from his private griefs.

To one, who afterward, almost deceived by his profound and wonderful dissimulation, read it aloud in the Senate, in proof that no civil war was impending, he wrote:

"Lucius Catiline to Quintus Catulus, sends health. Your most distinguished faith, known by experience, gives me in mighty perils a grateful confidence, thus to address you. Since I have resolved to prepare no defence in the new steps which I have taken, I am resolved to set forth my apology, conscious to myself of no crime, which—So may the God of Honor guard me!—you may rely upon as true. Goaded by injury and insult, robbed of the guerdon of my toils and industry, that state of dignity at which I aimed, I publicly have undertaken, according to my wont, the cause of the unhappy and oppressed; not because I am unable to pay all debts contracted on my own account, from my own property—from those incurred in behalf of others, the generosity of Orestilla and her daughter, by their treasures, would have released me—but because I saw men honored who deserve no honor, and felt myself disgraced, on false suspicion. On this plea, I now take measures, honorable in my circumstances, for preserving that dignity which yet remains to me. I would have written more, but I learn that violence is about to be offered me. Now I commend to you Orestilla, and trust her to your faith. As you love your own children, shield her from injury. Farewell."

This strange letter, intended, as after events evidently proved, to bear a double sense, he had scarce sealed, when Aulus Fulvius was announced.

For a few moments after he entered, Catiline continued writing; then handing Chrea, who at a sign had remained in waiting, a list of many names, "Let them," he said, "be here, prepared for a journey, and in arms at the fifth hour. Prepare a banquet of the richest, ample for all these, in the Atrium; in the garden Triclinium, a feast for ten—the rarest meats, the choicest wines, the delicatest perfumes, the fairest slave-girls in most voluptuous attire. At the third hour! See to it! Get thee hence!"

The freedman bowed low, and departed on his mission; then turning to the young patrician,

"I have sent for you," he said, "the first, noble Aulus, because I hold you the first in honor, bravery, and action; because I believe that you will serve me truly, and to the utmost. Am I deceived?"

"Catiline, you have judged aright."

"And that you cannot serve me, more gratefully to yourself, than in avenging me on that young pedant, Paullus Arvina."

The eyes of the youthful profligate flashed dark fire, and his whole face beamed with intense satisfaction.

"By all the Powers of Tartarus!" he cried, "Show me but how, and I will hunt him to the gates of Hades!"

Catiline nodded to him, with an approving smile, and after looking around him warily for a minute, as if fearful even of the walls' overhearing him, he stepped close up to him, and whispered in his ear, for several moments.

"Do you conceive me, ha?" he said aloud, when he had ended.

"Excellent well!" cried the other in rapturous triumph, "but how gain an opportunity?"

"Look you, here is his signature, some trivial note or other, I kept it, judging that one day it might serve a purpose. You can write, I know, very cleverly—I have not forgotten Old Alimentus' will—write to her in his name, requesting her to visit him, with Hortensia, otherwise she will doubt the letter. Then you can meet her, and do as I have told you. Will not that pass, my Fulvius?"

"It shall pass," answered the young man confidently. "My life on it! Rely on me!"

"I hold it done already," returned Catiline, "But you comprehend all—unstained, in all honor, until she reach me; else were the vengeance incomplete."

"It shall be so. But when?"

"When best you can accomplish it. This night, I leave the city."

"You leave the city!"

"This night! at the sixth hour!"

"But to return, Catiline?"

"To return with a victorious, an avenging army! To return as destroyer! with a sword sharper than that of mighty Sylla, a torch hotter than that of the mad Ephesian! To return, Aulus, in such guise, that ashes and blood only show where Rome—was!"

"But, ere that, I must join you?"

"Aye! In the Appenines, at the camp of Caius Manlius"

"Fear me not. The deed is accomplished—hatred and vengeance, joined to resolve, never fail."

"Never! but lo, here come the rest. Not a word to one of these. The burly sword-smith is your man, and his fellows! Strike suddenly, and soon; and, till you strike, be silent. Ha! Lentulus, Cethegus, good friends all—welcome, welcome!" he cried, as they entered, eight in number, the ringleaders of the atrocious plot, grasping each by the hand. "I have called you to a council, a banquet, and, thence to action!"

"Good things all," answered Lentulus, "so that the first be brief and bold, the second long and loud, the last daring and decisive!"

"They shall be so, all three! Listen. This very night, I set forth to join Caius Manlius in his camp. Things work not here as I would have them; my presence keeps alive suspicion, terror, watchfulness. I absent, security will grow apace, and from that boldness, and from boldness, rashness! So will you find that opportunity, which dread of me, while present, delays fatally. Watch your time; choose your men; augment, by any means, the powers of our faction; gain over friends; get rid of enemies, secretly if you can; if not, audaciously. Destroy the Consul—you will soon find occasion, or, if not find, make it. Be ready with the blade and brand, to burn and to slaughter, so soon as my trumpets shall sound havoc from the hills of Fiesol. Metellus and his men, will be sent after me with speed; Marcius Rex will be ordered from the city, with his cohorts, to Capua, or Apulia, or the Picene district; for in all these, the slaves will rise, so soon as my Eagle soars above the Appenine. The heart of the city will then lie open to your daggers."

"And they shall pierce it to the core," cried Cethegus.

"Wisely you have resolved, my Catiline, as ever," said Longinus Cassius. "Go, and success sit upon your banners!"

"Be not thou over slow, my Cassius, nor thou, Cethegus, over daring. Temper each one, the metal of the other. Let your counsels be, as the gathering of the storm-clouds, certain and slow; your deeds, as the thunderbolt, rash, rapid, irresistible!"

"How will you go forth, Catiline? Alone? in secret?" asked Autronius.

"No! by the Father of Quirinus! with my casque on my head, and my broad-sword on my thigh, and with three hundred of my clients at my back! They sup in my Atrium, at the fifth hour of the night, and at the sixth, we mount our horses. I think Cicero will not bar our passage."

"By Mars! he would beat the gates down rather, to let you forth the more easily."

"If he be wise he would."

"He is wise," said Catiline. "Would God that he were less so."

"To be overwise, is worse, sometimes, than to be foolish," answered Cethegus.

"And to be over bold, worse than to be a coward!" said Catiline. "Therefore, Cethegus, be thou neither. Now, my friends, I do not say leave me, but excuse me, until the third hour, when we will banquet. Nay! go not forth from the house, I pray you; it may arouse suspicion, which I would have you shun. There are books in the library, for who would read; foils in the garden, balls in the fives-court, for who would breathe themselves before supper; and lastly, there are some fair slaves in the women's chamber, for who would listen to the lute, or kiss soft lips, and not unwilling. I have still many things to do, ere I depart."

"And those done, a farewell caress to Orestilla," said Cethegus, laughing.

"Aye! would I could take her with me."

"Do you doubt her, then, that you fear to leave her?"

"If I doubted, I would not leave her—or I would leave her so, as not to doubt her. Alexion himself, cannot in general cure the people, whom I doubt."

"I hope you never will doubt me," said Curius, who was present, the Judas of the faction, endeavoring to jest; yet more than half feeling what he said.

"I hope not"—replied Catiline, with a strange fixed glance, and a singular smile; for he did in truth, at that very moment, half doubt the speaker. "If I do, Curius, it will not be for long! But I must go," he added, "and make ready. Amuse yourselves as best you can, till I return to you. Come, Aulus Fulvius, I must speak with you farther."

And, with the words, he left them, not indeed to apply themselves to any sport or pleasure, but to converse anxiously, eagerly, almost fearfully, on the events which were passing in succession, so rapid, and so unforeseen. Their souls were too much absorbed by one dominant idea, one devouring passion, to find any interest in any small or casual excitement.

To spirits so absorbed, hours fly like minutes, and none of those guilty men were aware of the lapse of time, until Catiline returned, dressed in a suit of splendid armor, of blue Iberian steel, embossed with studs and chasings of pure silver, with a rich scarlet sagum over it, fringed with deep lace. His knees were bare, but his legs were defended by greaves of the same fabric and material with his corslet; and a slave bore behind him his bright helmet, triply crested with crimson horsehair, his oblong shield charged with a silver thunderbolt, and his short broad-sword of Bilboa steel, which was already in those days, as famous as in the middle ages. He looked, indeed, every inch a captain; and if undaunted valor, unbounded energy, commanding intellect, an eye of lightning, unequalled self-possession, endless resource, incomparable endurance of cold, heat, hunger, toil, watchfulness, and extremity of pain, be qualities which constitute one, then was he a great Captain.

A captain well formed to lead a host of demons.

The banquet followed, with all that could gratify the eye, the ear, the nostril, or the palate. The board blazed with lights, redoubled by the glare of gold and crystal. Flowers, perfumes, incense, streamed over all, till the whole atmosphere was charged with voluptuous sweetness. The softest music breathed from the instruments of concealed performers. The rarest wines flowed like water. And flashing eyes, and wreathed smiles, and bare arms, and bare bosoms, and most voluptuous forms, decked to inflame the senses of the coldest, were prodigal of charms and soft abandonment.

No modest pen may describe the orgies that ensued,—the drunkenness, the lust, the frantic mirth, the unnatural mad revelry. There was but one at that banquet, who, although he drank more deeply, rioted more sensually, laughed more loudly, sang more wildly, than any of the guests, was yet as cool amid that terrible scene of excitement, as in the council chamber, as on the battle field.

His sallow face flushed not; his hard clear eye swam not languidly, nor danced with intoxication; his voice quivered not; his pulse was as slow, as even as its wont. That man's frame, like his soul, was of trebly tempered steel.

Had Catiline not been the worst, he had been the greatest of Romans.

But his race in Rome was now nearly ended. The water-clocks announced the fifth hour; and leaving the more private triclinium, in which the ringleaders alone had feasted, followed by his guests,—who were flushed, reeling, and half frenzied,—with a steady step, a cold eye, and a presence like that of Mars himself, the Arch Traitor entered the great open hall, wherein three hundred of his clients, armed sumptuously in the style of legionary horsemen, had banqueted magnificently, though they had stopped short of the verge of excess.

All rose to their feet, as Catiline entered, hushed in dread expectation.

He stood for one moment, gazing on his adherents, tried veterans every man of them, case-hardened in the furnace of Sylla's fiery discipline, with proud confidence and triumph in his eye; and then addressed them in clear high tones, piercing as those of an adamantine trumpet.

"Since," he said, "it is permitted to us neither to live in Rome securely, nor to die in Rome honorably, I go forth—will you follow me?"

And, with an unanimous cry, as it had been the voice of one man, they answered,

"To the death, Catiline!"

"I go forth, harming no one, hating no one, fearing no one! Guiltless of all, but of loving the people! Goaded to ruin by the proud patricians, injured, insulted, well nigh maddened, I go forth to seek, not power nor revenge, but innocence and safety. If they will leave me peace, the lamb shall be less gentle; if they will drive me into war, the famished lion shall be tamer. Soldiers of Sylla, will you have Sylla's friend in peace for your guardian, in war for your captain?"

And again, in one tumultuous shout, they replied, "In peace, or in war, through life, and unto death, Catiline!"

"Behold, then, your Eagle!"—and, with the word, he snatched from a marble slab on which it lay, covered by tapestry, the silver bird of Mars, hovering with expanded wings over a bannered staff, and brandished it on high, in triumph. "Behold your standard, your omen, and your God! Swear, that it shall shine yet again above Rome's Capitol!"

Every sword flashed from its scabbard, every knee was bent; and kneeling, with the bright blades all pointed like concentric sunbeams toward that bloody idol, in deep emotion, and deep awe, they swore to be true to the Eagle, traitors to Rome, parricides to their country.

"One cup of wine, and then to horse, and to glory!"

The goblets were brimmed with the liquid madness; they were quaffed to the very dregs; they clanged empty upon the marble floor.

Ten minutes more, and the hall was deserted; and mounted on proud horses, brought suddenly together, by a perfect combination of time and place, with the broad steel heads of their javelins sparkling in the moonbeams, and the renowned eagle poised with bright wings above them, the escort of the Roman Traitor rode through the city streets, at midnight, audacious, in full military pomp, in ordered files, with a cavalry clarion timing their steady march—rode unresisted through the city gates, under the eyes of a Roman cohort, to try the fortunes of civil war in the provinces, frustrate of massacre and conflagration in the capitol.

Cicero knew it, and rejoiced; and when he cried aloud on the following day, "ABIIT, EXCESSIT, EVASIT, ERUPIT—He hath departed, he hath stolen out, he hath gone from among us, he hath burst forth into war"—his great heart thrilled, and his voice quivered, with prophetic joy and conscious triumph. He felt even then that he had "SAVED HIS COUNTRY."



CHAPTER VII

THE AMBASSADORS.

Give first admittance to th' ambassadors. HAMLET.

It wanted a short time of noon, on a fine bracing day in the latter end of November.

Something more than a fortnight had elapsed since the flight of Catiline; and, as no further discoveries had been made, nor any tumults or disturbances arisen in the city, men had returned to their former avocations, and had for the most part forgotten already the circumstances, which had a little while before convulsed the public mind with fear or favor.

No certain tidings had been received, or, if received, divulged to the people, of Catiline's proceedings; it being only known that he had tarried for a few days at the country-house of Caius Flaminius Flamma, near to Arretium, where he was believed to be amusing himself with boar-hunting.

On the other hand, the letters of justification, and complaint against Cicero, had been shewn to their friends by all those who had received them, all men of character and weight; and their contents had thus gained great publicity.

The consequence of this was, naturally enough, that the friends and favorers of the conspiracy, acting with singular wisdom and foresight, studiously affected the utmost moderation and humility of bearing, while complaining every where of the injustice done to Catiline, and of the false suspicions maliciously cast on many estimable individuals, by the low-born and ambitious person who was temporarily at the head of the state.

The friends of Cicero and the republic, on the contrary, lay on their oars, in breathless expectation of some new occurrence, which should confirm the public mind, and approve their own conduct; well aware that much time could not elapse before Catiline would be heard of at the head of an army.

In the meantime, the city wore its wonted aspect; men bought and sold, and toiled or sported; and women smiled and sighed, flaunted and wantoned in the streets, as if, a few short days before, they had not been wringing their hands in terror, dissolved in tears, and speechless from dismay.

It was a market day, and the forum was crowded almost to overflowing. The country people had flocked in, as usual, to sell the produce of their farms; and their wagons stood here and there laden with seasonable fruits, cheeses, and jars of wine, pigeons in wicker cages, fresh herbs, and such like articles of traffic. Many had brought their wives, sun-burned, black-haired and black-eyed, from their villas in the Latin or Sabine country, to purchase city luxuries. Many had come to have their lawsuits decided; many to crave justice against their superiors from the Tribunes of the people; many to get their wills registered, to pay or borrow money, and to transact that sort of business, for which the day was set aside.

Nor were the townsmen absent from the gay scene; for to them the nundin, or market days, were holydays, in which the courts of law were shut, and the offices closed to them, at least, although open to the rural citizens, for the despatch of business.

The members of the city tribes crowded therefore to the forum many of these too accompanied by their women, to buy provisions, to ask for news from the country, and to stare at the uncouth and sturdy forms of the farmers, or admire the black eyes and merry faces of the country lasses.

It was a lively and gay scene; the bankers' shops, distinguished by the golden shields of the Samnites, suspended from the lintels of their doors, were thronged with money-changers, and alive with the hum of traffic.

Ever and anon some curule magistrate, in his fringed toga, with his lictors, in number proportioned to his rank, would come sweeping through the dense crowd; or some plebeian officer, with his ushers and beadles; or, before whom the ranks of the multitude would open of their own accord and bow reverentially, some white-stoled vestal virgin, with her fair features closely veiled from profane eyes, the sacred fillets on her head, and her lictor following her dainty step with his shouldered fasces. Street musicians there were also, and shows of various kinds, about which the lower orders of the people collected eagerly; and, here and there, among the white stoles and gayly colored shawls of the matrons and maidens, might be seen the flowered togas and showy head-dresses of those unfortunate girls, many of them rare specimens of female beauty, whose character precluded them from wearing the attire of their own sex.

"Ha! Fabius Sanga, whither thou in such haste through the crowd?" cried a fine manly voice, to a patrician of middle age who was forcing his way hurriedly among the jostling mob, near to the steps of the Comitium, or building appropriated to the reception of ambassadors.

The person thus addressed turned his head quickly, though without slackening his speed.

"Ah! is it thou, Arvina? Come with me, thou art young and strong; give me thy arm, and help me through this concourse."

"Willingly," replied the young man. "But why are you in such haste?" he continued, as he joined him; "you can have no business here to-day."

"Aye! but I have, my Paullus. I am the patron to these Gallic ambassadors, who have come hither to crave relief from the Senate for their people. They must receive their answer in the Comitium to-day; and I fear me much, I am late."

"Ah! by the Gods! I saw them on that day they entered the city. Right stout and martial barbarians! What is their plea? will they succeed?"

"I fear not," answered Sanga, "They are too poor. Senatorial relief must be bought nowadays. The longest purse is the most righteous cause! Their case is a hard one, too. Their nation is oppressed with debt, both private and public; they have been faithful allies to the state, and served it well in war, and now seek remission of some grievous tributes. But what shall we say? They are poor—barbarians—their aid not needed now by the republic—and, as you know, my Paullus, justice is sold now in Rome, like silk, for its weight in gold!"

"The more shame!" answered Paullus. "It was not by such practices, that our fathers built up this grand edifice of the republic."

"Riches have done it, Paullus! Riches and Commerce! While we had many tillers of the ground, and few merchants, we were brave in the field, and just at home!"

"Think you, then, that the spirit of commerce is averse to justice, and bravery, and freedom?"

"No, I do not think it, Arvina, I know it!" answered Fabius Sanga, who, with the truth and candor of a patrician of Rome's olden school, possessed, and that justly, much repute for wisdom and foresight. "All mercantile communities are base communities. Look at Tyre, in old times! Look at Carthage, in our grandfathers' days! at Corinth in our own! Merchants are never patriots! and rich men seldom; unless they be landholders! But see, see, there are my clients, descending the steps of the Comitium! By all the Gods! I am too late! their audience is ended! Now, by Themis, the goddess of justice! will they deem me also venal!"

As he spoke, they had come to the foot of the grand flight of marble steps, leading up to the doors of the Grcostasis, or comitium; or rather had come as near to the foot, as the immense concourse, which had gathered about that spot to stare at the wild figures and foreign gait of the ambassadors, would allow them to approach.

"It is in vain to press forward yet, my Sanga. A moment or two, and these clowns will be satisfied with gazing; yet, by Hercules! I cannot blame them. For these Highlanders are wondrous muscular and stout warriors to look upon, and their garb, although somewhat savage, is very martial and striking."

And, in truth, their Celtic bonnets, with their long single eagle feathers, set somewhat obliquely on their abundant auburn hair; their saffron-colored shirts, tight-fitting trews of tartan plaid, and variegated mantles floating over their brawny shoulders, their chains and bracelets of gold and silver, their long daggers in their girdles, and their tremendous broad-swords swinging at their thighs, did present a strange contrast to the simple tunics of white woollen, and plain togas of the same material, which constituted the attire of nine-tenths of the spectators.

"I must—must get nearer!" replied Sanga, anxiously; "I must speak with them! I can see by the moody brows, and sullen looks of the elder nobles, and by the compressed lips and fiery glances of the young warriors, that matters have gone amiss with them. I shall be blamed, I know, for it—but I have failed in my duty as their patron, and must bear it. There will be mischief; I pray you let us pass, my friends," he continued, addressing the people, "I am the patron of their nation; let us pass."

But it was in vain that they besought and strove; the pressure of the mob was, if anything, augmented; and Paullus was compelled to remain motionless with his companion, hoping that the Allobroges would move in their direction.

But, while they were thus waiting, a thin keen-looking man pressed up to the ambassadors, from the farther side, while they were yet upon the steps, and saluting them cordially, pressed their hands, as if he were an old and familiar friend.

Nor did the Highlanders appear less glad to see him, for they shook his hand warmly, and spoke to him with vehement words, and sparkling eyes.

"Who is that man, who greets our Allobroges so warmly?" asked Arvina of his companion. "Know you the man?"

"I know him!" answered Sanga, watching the gestures which accompanied their conversation with an eager eye, although too far off to hear anything that was passing. "It is one of these traders, of whom we spoke but now; and as pestilent a knave and rogue as ever sold goods by short measure, and paid his purchases in light coin! Publius Umbrenus is the man. A Gallic trader. He hath become rich by the business he hath carried on with this same tribe, bartering Roman wares, goldsmith's work, trinkets, cutlery, wines, and the like, against their furs and hides, and above all against their amber. He gains three hundred fold by every barter, and yet, by the God of Faith! he brings them in his debt after all; and yet the simple-minded, credulous Barbarians, believe him their best friend. I would buy it at no small price, to know what he saith to them. See! he points to the Comitium. By your head, Paullus! he is poisoning their minds against the Senate!"

"See!" said Arvina. "They descend the steps in the other direction. He is leading them away with him some-whither."

"To no good end!" said Sanga emphatically; and then smiting his breast with his hand, he continued, evidently much afflicted, "My poor clients! my poor simple Highlanders! He will mislead them to their ruin?"

"They are going toward Vesta's temple," said Arvina. "If we should turn back through the arch of Fabius, and so enter into the western branch of the Sacred Way, we might overtake them near the Ruminal Fig-tree."

"You might, for you are young and active. But I am growing old, Paullus, and the gout afflicts my feet, and makes me slower than my years. Will you do so, and mark whither he leads them; and come back, and tell me? You shall find me in Natta's, the bookseller's shop, at the corner of the street Argiletum."

"Willingly, Sanga," answered the young man. "The rather, if it may profit these poor Gauls anything."

"Thou art a good youth, Paullus. The Gods reward it to thee. Remember Natta's book-shop."

"Doubt me not," said Arvina; and he set off at a pace so rapid, as brought him up with those, whom he was pursuing, within ten minutes.

The ambassadors, six or eight in number, among whom the old white-headed chief he had observed—when he went with Hortensia and his betrothed, to see their ingress into Rome—together with the young warrior whose haughty bearing he had noticed on that occasion, were most eminent, had been joined by another Roman beside Umbrenus.

Him, Paullus recognised at once, for Titus Volturcius, a native and nobleman of Crotona, a Greek city, on the Gulf of Tarentum, although a citizen of Rome.

He was a man of evil repute, as a wild debauchee, a gambler, and seducer; and Arvina had observed him more than once in company with Cornelius Lentulus.

This led him to suspect, that Sanga was perhaps more accurate in his suspicions, than he himself imagined; and that something might be in progress here, against the republic.

He watched them warily, therefore; and soon found an ample confirmation of the worst he imagined, in seeing them enter the house of Decius Brutus, the husband of the beautiful, but infamous Sempronia.

It must not be supposed, that the privity of these various individuals to the conspiracy, was accurately known to young Arvina; but he was well aware, that Lentulus and Catiline were sworn friends; and that Sempronia was the very queen of those abandoned and licentious ladies, who were the instigators and rewarders of the young nobles, in their profligacy and their crimes; it did not require, therefore, any wondrous degree of foresight, to see that something dangerous was probably brewing, in this amalgamation of ingredients so incongruous, as Roman nobles and patrician harlots, with wild barbarians from the Gallic highlands.

Without tarrying, therefore, longer than to ascertain that he was not mistaken in the house, he hurried back to meet Sanga, at the appointed place, promising himself that not Sanga only, but Cicero himself, should be made acquainted with that which he had discovered so opportunely.

The Argiletum was a street leading down from the vegetable mart, which lay just beyond the Porta Fluminiana, or river gate, to the banks of the Tiber, at the quays called pulchrum littus, or the beautiful shore; it was therefore a convenient place of meeting for persons who had parted company in the forum, particularly when going in that direction, which had been taken by Umbrenus and the Ambassadors.

Hastening onward to the street appointed—which was for the most part inhabited by booksellers, copyists, and embellishers of illuminated manuscripts, beside a few tailors—he was hailed, just as he reached the river gate, by a well-known voice, from a cross street; and turning round he felt his hand warmly grasped, by an old friend, Aristius Fuscus, one of the noble youths, with whom he had striven, in the Campus Martius, on that eventful day, when he first visited the house of Catiline.

"Hail! Paullus," exclaimed the new comer, "I have not seen you in many days. Where have you been, since you beat us all in the quinquertium?"

"Absent from town, on business of the state, part of the time, my Fuscus," answered Arvina, shaking his friend's hand gayly. "I was sent to Prneste, with my troop of horse, before the calends of November; and returned not until the Ides."

"And since that, I fancy"—replied the other laughing, "You have been sunning yourself in the bright smiles of the fair Julia. I thought you were to have led her home, as your bride, ere this time."

"You are wrong for once, good friend," said Paullus, with a well-pleased smile. "Julia is absent from the city also. She and Hortensia are on a visit to their farm, at the foot of Mount Algidus. I have not seen them, since my return from Prneste."

"Your slaves, I trow, know every mile-stone by this time, on the via Labicana! Do you write to her daily?"

"Not so, indeed, Aristius;" he replied. "We are too long betrothed, and too confident, each in the good faith of the other, to think it needful to kill my poor slaves in bearing amatory billets."

"You are wise, Paullus, as you are true, and will, I hope, be happy lovers!"

"The Gods grant it!" replied Paullus.

"Do they return shortly? It is long since I have visited Hortensia. She would do justly to refuse me admittance when next I go to salute her."

"Not until after the next market day. But here I must leave you; I am going to Natta's shop, in the Argiletum."

"To purchase books? Ha! or to the tailor's? the last, I presume, gay bridegroom—there are, you know, two Nattas."

"Natta, the bookseller, is my man. But I go thither, not as a buyer, but to meet a friend, Fabius Sanga."

"A very wise and virtuous Roman," replied the other, stopping at the corner of the street Argiletum, "but tarry a moment; when shall we meet again? I am going down to the hippodrome, can you not join me there, when you have finished your business with Sanga?"

"I can; gladly." answered Arvina.

As they stopped, previous to separating, a young man, who had been walking for some distance close at their heels, passed them, nodding as he did so, to Arvina, who returned his salutation, very distantly.

"Aulus Fulvius!" said Aristius, as Paullus bowed to him, "as bad a specimen of a young patrician, as one might see for many days, even if he searched for rascals, as the philosopher did for an honest man, by lanthorn's light at noon. He has been following our steps, by my head!—to pick up our stray words, and weave them into calumnies, and villainy."

"I care not," answered Arvina, lightly. "He may make all he can of what he heard, we were talking no treason!"

"No, truly; not even lover's treason," said his friend. "Well, do not tarry long, Arvina."

"I will not; be assured. Not the fourth part of an hour. See! there is Fabius Sanga awaiting me even now. Walk slowly, and I will overtake you, before you reach the Campus."

And with the word, he turned down the Argiletum, and joined the patron of the Allobroges, at the bookseller's door.

In the meantime Aulus Fulvius, who had heard all that he desired, wheeled about, and walked back toward the Carmental gate. But, as he passed the head of the Argiletum, he cast a lurid glance of singular malignity upon Arvina, who was standing in full view, conversing with his friend; and muttered between his teeth,

"The fool! the hypocrite! the pedant! well said, wise Catiline, 'that it matters not much whether one listen to his friends, so he listen well to his enemies!' The fool—so he thinks he shall have Julia. But he never shall, by Hades! never!"

A slenderly made boy, dressed in a succinct huntsman's tunic, with subligacula, or drawers, reaching to within a hand's breadth of his knee, was loitering near the corner, gazing wistfully on Arvina; and, as Aulus muttered those words half aloud, he jerked his head sharply around, and looked very keenly at the speaker.

"Never shall have Julia!" he repeated to himself, "he must have spoken that concerning Arvina. I wonder who he is. I never saw him before. I must know—I must know, forthwith! For he shall have her, by heaven and Him, who dwells in it! he shall have her!"

And, turning a lingering and languid look toward Paullus, the slight boy darted away in pursuit of Aulus.

A moment afterward Arvina, his conference with Sanga ended, and ignorant of all that by-play, took the road leading to the Campus, eager to overtake his friend Aristius.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE LATIN VILLA.

I come, O Agamemnon's daughter fair, To this thy sylvan lair. ELECTRA.

Through a soft lap in the wooded chain of Mount Algidus, a bright pellucid stream, after wheeling and fretting among the crags and ledges of the upper valleys, winds its way gently, toward the far-famed Tiber.

Shut in, on every side, except the south, by the lower spurs of the mountain ridge, in which it is so snugly nestled, covered with rich groves of chesnut-trees, and sheltered on the northward by the dark pines of the loftier steeps, it were difficult to conceive a fairer site for a villa, than that sweet vale.

Accordingly, on a little knoll in the jaws of the gorge, whence issued that clear streamlet, facing the pleasant south, yet sheltered from its excessive heats by a line of superb plane trees, festooned with luxuriant vines, there stood a long low building of the antique form, built of dark-colored stone.

A villa, in the days of Cicero, was a very different thing from the luxurious pleasure-houses which came into vogue in the days of the later Emperors, of which Pliny has given us descriptions so minute and glowing; yet even his Tusculan retreat was a building of vast pretension, when compared with this, which was in fact neither more nor less than an old Roman Farmhouse, of that innocent and unsophisticated day, when the Consulars of the Republic were tillers of the soil, and when heroes returned, from the almost immortal triumph, to the management of the spade and the ploughshare.

This villa had, it is true, been adorned somewhat, and fitted to the temporary abode of individuals more refined and elegant, than the rough steward and rustic slaves, who were its usual tenants. Yet it still retained its original form, and was adapted to its original uses.

The house itself, which was but two stories high, was in form a hollow square, to the courts enclosed in which access was gained by a pair of lofty wooden gates in the rear. It had, in the first instance, presented on all sides merely a blank wall exteriorly, all the windows looking into the court, the centre of which was occupied by a large tank of water, the whole interior serving the purpose of a farm yard. The whole ground floor of the building, had formerly been occupied by stables, root-houses, wine-presses, dairies, cheese-rooms and the like, and by the slaves' kitchen, which was the first apartment toward the right of the entrance. The upper story contained the granaries and the dormitories of the workmen; and three sides still remained unaltered.

The front, however, of the villa had been pierced with a handsome doorway, and several windows; a colonnade of rustic stonework had been carried along the faade, and a beautiful garden had been laid out before it, with grassy terraces, clipped hedges, box trees, transmuted by the gardener's art into similitudes of Peacocks, Centaurs, Tritons, Swans, and many other forms of fowls or fishes, unknown alike and unnamed by Gods or mortals.

The sun was within about half an hour of his setting, and his slant beams, falling through a gap in the western hills, streamed down into the little valley, casting long stripes of alternate light and shadow over the smoothly shaven lawn, sparkling upon the ripples of the streamlet, and gilding the embrowned or yellow foliage of the sere hill-sides, with brighter and more vivid colors.

At this pleasant hour, notwithstanding the lateness of the season, and looking upon this pleasant scene, a group of females were collected, under the rustic colonnade of Italian marble, engaged in some of those light toils, which in feminine hands are so graceful.

The foremost of these, seated apart somewhat from the others, were the stately and still beautiful Hortensia, and her lovely daughter, both of them employed in twirling the soft threads from the merrily revolving spindle, into large osier baskets; and the elder lady, glancing at times toward the knot of slave girls, as if to see that they performed their light tasks; and at times, if their mirth waxed too loud, checking it by a gesture of her elevated finger.

A little while before, Julia had been singing in her sweet low voice, one of those favorite old ballads, which were so much prized by the Romans, and to which Livy is probably so much indebted for the redundant imagery of his "pictured page," commemorative of the deeds and virtues of the Old Houses.

But, as her lay came to its end, her eye had fallen on the broad blood-red disc of the descending day-god, and had followed him upon his downward path, until he was lost to view, among the tangled coppices that fringed the brow of the western hill.

Her hands dropped listlessly into her lap, releasing the snow-white thread, which they had drawn out so daintily; and keeping her eyes still fixed steadily on the point where he had disappeared, she gave vent to her feelings in a long-drawn 'heigho!' in every language, and in all times, expression of sentimental sadness.

"Wherefore so sad a sigh, my Julia?" asked Hortensia, gazing affectionately at the saddened brow of the fair girl—"methinks! there is nothing very melancholy here; nothing that should call forth repining."

"See, see Hortensia, how he sinks like a dying warrior, amid those sanguine clouds," cried the girl, pointing to the great orb of the sun, just as its last limb was disappearing.

"And into a couch of bays and myrtles, like that warrior, when his duty is done, his fame won!" exclaimed Hortensia, throwing her arm abroad enthusiastically; and truly the hill-side, behind which he was lost to view, was feathered thick with the shrubs of which she spoke—"methinks! there is nought for which to sigh in such a setting, either of the sun, or the hero!"

"But see, how dark and gloomy he has left all behind him!—the river which was golden but now, while he smiled upon it, now that he is gone, is leaden."

"But he shall rise again to-morrow, brighter and yet more glorious; and yet more gloriously shall the stream blaze back his rising than his setting lustre."

"Alas! alas! Hortensia!"

"Wherefore, alas, my Julia?"

"For so will not the warrior rise, who sinks forever, although it may be into a bed of glory! And if the setting of the sun leave all here lustreless and dark and gloomy, although that must arise again to-morrow, what must the setting do of one who shall arise no more for ever; whose light of life was to one heart, what the sunbeam was to the streamlet, but which, unlike that sunbeam, shall never shine on the heart any more, Hortensia."

"My poor child," cried the noble matron, affected almost to tears, "you are thinking of Paullus."

"When am I not thinking of him, mother?" said the girl. "Remember, we have left the city, seeking these quiet shades, in order to eschew that turmoil, that peril, in the heat of which he is now striving for his country! Remember, that he will plunge into all that strife, the more desperately, because he fancies that he was too remiss before! Remember this, Hortensia; and say, if thou canst, that I have no cause for sad forebodings!"

"That can I not, my Julia," she replied—"For who is there on earth, who knoweth what the next sun shall bring forth? The sunshine of to-day, oft breeds the storm of to-morrow—and, again, from the tempest of the eve, how oft is born the brightest and most happy morning. Wisest is he, and happiest, my child, who wraps himself in his own virtue, careless of what the day shall bring to pass, and confident, that all the shafts of fortune must rebound, harmless and blunted, from his sure armor of philosophy."

"Must not the heart have bled, Hortensia, before it can so involve itself in virtue?—must not such philosophy be the tardy offspring of great sorrow?"

"For the most part I fear it is so, Julia," answered the matron, "but some souls there are so innocent and quiet, so undisturbed by the outward world, that they have that, almost by nature, which others only win by suffering and tears."

"Cold and unfeeling souls, I fancy," replied the girl. "For it appears to me that this philosophy which smiles on all spite of fortune, must be akin to selfish and morose indifference. I see not much to love, Hortensia, or to admire in the stoic!"

"Nor much more, I imagine," said Hortensia, not sorry to draw her mind from the subject which occupied it so painfully, "in the Epicurean!"

"Much less!" answered Julia, quickly, "his creed is mere madness and impiety. To believe that the Gods care nothing for the good or evil—ye Gods!" she interrupted herself suddenly, almost with a shriek. "What is this? a slave riding, as if for life, on a foaming horse, from the cityward. Oh! my prophetic soul, Hortensia!"

And she turned pale as death, although she remained quite firm and self-possessed.

"It may be nothing, Julia; or it may be good tidings," answered Hortensia, although she was in truth scarce less alarmed, than her daughter, by the unexpected arrival.

"Good tidings travel not so quickly. Beside, what can there be of good, so unexpected? But we shall know—we shall know quickly," and she arose, as if to descend the steps into the garden, but she sank back again into her seat, crying, "I am faint, I am sick, here, Hortensia," and she laid her hand on her heart as she spoke. "Nay! do not tarry with me, I pray thee, see what he brings. Anything but the torture of suspense!"

"I go, I go, my child," cried the matron, descending the marble steps to the lawn, on which the slave had just drawn up his panting horse. "He has a letter in his hand, be of good courage."

And a moment afterward she cried out joyously, "It is in his hand, Julia, Paullus Arvina's hand. Fear nothing."

And with a quick light step, she returned, and gave the little slip of vellum into the small white hand, which trembled so much, that it scarcely could receive it.

"A snow-white dove to thee, kind Venus!" cried the girl, raising her eyes in gratitude to heaven, before she broke the seal.

But as she did so, and read the first lines, her face was again overcast, and her eyes were dilated with wild terror.

"It is so—it is so—Hortensia! I knew—oh! my soul! I knew it!" and she let fall the letter, and fell back in her seat almost fainting.

"What?—what?" exclaimed Hortensia. "It is Arvina's hand—he must be in life!—what is it, my own Julia?"

"Wounded almost to death!" faltered the girl, in accents half choked with anguish. "Read! read aloud, kind mother."

Alarmed by her daughter's suffering and terror, Hortensia caught the parchment from her half lifeless fingers, and scanning its contents hastily with her eyes, read as follows;

"Paullus Arvina, to Julia and Hortensia, greeting! Your well known constancy and courage give me the confidence to write frankly to you, concealing nothing. Your affection makes me sure, that you will hasten to grant my request. Last night, in a tumult aroused by the desperate followers of Catiline, stricken down and severely wounded, I narrowly missed death. Great thanks are due to the Gods, that the assassin's weapon failed to penetrate to my vitals. Be not too much alarmed, however; Alexion, Cicero's friend and physician, has visited me; and declares, that, unless fever supervene, there is no danger from the wound. Still, I am chained to my couch, wearily, and in pain, with none but slaves about me. At such times, the heart asks for more tender ministering—wherefore I pray you, Julia, let not one day elapse; but come to me! Hortensia, by the Gods! bring her to the city! Catiline hath fled, the peril hath passed over—but lo! I am growing faint—I can write no more, now—there is a swimming of my brain, and a cloud over my eyes. Farewell. Come to me quickly, that it prove not too late—come to me quickly, if you indeed love ARVINA."

"We will go, Julia. We will go to him instantly," said Hortensia—"but be of good cheer, poor child. Alexion declares, that there is no danger; and no one is so wise as he! Be of good cheer, we will set forth this night, this hour! Ere daybreak, we will be in Rome. Hark, Lydia," she continued, turning to one of the slave girls, "call me the steward, old Davus. Let the boy Gota, take the horse of the messenger; and bring thou the man hither." Then she added, addressing Julia, "I will question him farther, while they prepare the carpentum! Ho, Davus,"—for the old slave, who was close at hand, entered forthwith—"Have the mules harnessed, instantly, to the carpentum, and let the six Thracians, who accompanied us from Rome, saddle their horses, and take arms. Ill fortune has befallen young Arvina; we must return to town this night—as speedily as may be."

"Within an hour, Hortensia, all shall be in readiness, on my head be it, else."

"It is well—and, hark you! send hither wine and bread—we will not wait until they make supper ready; beside, this youth is worn out with his long ride, and needs refreshment."

As the steward left the room, she gazed attentively at the young slave, who had brought the despatch, and, not recognising his features, a half feeling of suspicion crossed her mind; so that she stooped and whispered to Julia, who looked up hastily and answered,

"No—no—but what matters it? It is his handwriting, and his signet."

"I do not know," said Hortensia, doubtfully—"I think he would have sent one of the older men; one whom we knew; I think he would have sent Medon"—Then she said to the boy, "I have never seen thy face before, I believe, good youth. How long hast thou served Arvina?"

"Since the Ides of October, Hortensia. He purchased me of Marcus Crassus."

"Purchased thee, Ha?" said Hortensia, yet more doubtfully than before—"that is strange. His household was large enough already. How came he then to purchase thee?"

"I was hired out by Crassus, as is his wont to do, to Crispus the sword-smith, in the Sacred Way—a cruel tyrant and oppressor, whom, when he was barbarously scourging me for a small error, noble Arvina saw; and then, finding his intercession fruitless, purchased me, as he said, that thereafter I should be entreated as a man, not as a beast of burthen."

"It is true! by the Gods!" exclaimed the girl, clasping her hands enthusiastically, and a bright blush coming up into her pale face. "Had I been told the action, without the actor's name, I should have known therein Arvina."

"Thou shouldst be grateful, therefore, to this good Arvina"—said Hortensia, gazing at him with a fixed eye, she knew not wherefore, yet with a sort of dubious presentiment of coming evil.

"Grateful!" cried the youth, clasping his hands fervently together—"ye Gods! grateful! Hortensia, by your head! I worship him—I would die for him."

"How came he to send thee on this mission? Why sent he not Medon, or Euphranor, or one of his elder freedmen?"

"Medon, he could not send, nor Euphranor. It went ill with them both, in that affray, wherein my lord was wounded. The older slaves keep watch around his bed; the strongest and most trusty, are under arms in the Atrium."

"And wert thou with him, in that same affray?"

"I was with him, Hortensia,"

"When fell it out, and for what cause?"

"Hast thou not heard, Hortensia?—has he not told you? by the Gods! I thought, the world had known it. How before Catiline, may it be ill with him and his, went forth from the city, he and his friends and followers attacked the Consuls, on the Palatine, with armed violence. It was fought through the streets doubtfully, for near three hours; and the fortunes of the Republic were at stake, and well nigh despaired of, if not lost. Cicero was down on the pavement, and Catiline's sword flashing over him, when, with his slaves and freedmen, my master cut his way through the ranks of the conspiracy, and bore off the great magistrate unharmed. But, as he turned, a villain buried his sica in his back, and though he saved the state, he well nigh lost his life, to win everlasting fame, and the love of all good citizens!"

"Hast seen him since he was wounded?" exclaimed Julia, who had devoured every word he uttered, with insatiable longing and avidity.

"Surely," replied the boy. "I received that scroll from his own hands—my orders from his own lips—'spare not an instant,' he said, 'Jason; tarry not, though you kill your steed. If you would have me live, let Julia see this letter before midnight.' It lacks as yet, four hours of midnight. Doth it not, noble Julia?"

"Five, I think. But how looked, how spoke he? Is he in great pain, Jason? how seemed he, when you left him?"

"He was very pale, Julia—very wan, and his lips ashy white. His voice faltered very much, moreover, and when he had made an end of speaking, he swooned away. I heard that he was better somewhat, ere I set out to come hither; but the physician speaks of fever to be apprehended, on any irritation or excitement. Should you delay long in visiting him, I fear the consequences might be perilous indeed."

"Do you hear? do you hear that, Hortensia? By the Gods! Let us go at once! we need no preparation!"

"We will go, Julia. Old Davus' hour hath nearly passed already. We will be in the city before day-break! Fear not, my sweet one, all shall go well with our beloved Paullus."

"The Gods grant it!"

"Here is wine, Jason," said Hortensia. "Drink, boy, you must needs be weary after so hard a gallop. You have done well, and shall repose here this night. To-morrow, when well rested and refreshed, you shall follow us to Rome."

"Pardon me, lady," said the youth. "I am not weary; love for Arvina hath prevailed over all weariness! Furnish me, I beseech you, with a fresh horse; and let me go with you."

"It shall be as you wish," said Hortensia, "but your frame seems too slender, to endure much labor."

"The Gods have given me a willing heart, Hortensia—and the strong will makes strong the feeble body."

"Well spoken, youth. Your devotion shall lose you nothing, believe me. Come, Julia, let us go and array us for the journey. The nights are cold now, in December, and the passes of the Algidus are bleak and gusty."

The ladies left the room; and, before the hour, which Davus had required, was spent, they were seated together in the rich carpentum, well wrapped in the soft many-colored woollen fabrics, which supplied the place of furs among the Romans—it being considered a relic of barbarism, to wear the skins of beasts, until the love for this decoration again returned in the last centuries of the Empire.

Old Davus grasped the reins; two Thracian slaves, well mounted, and armed with the small circular targets and lances of their native land, gallopped before the carriage, accompanied by the slave who had brought the message, while four more similarly equipped brought up the rear; and thus, before the moon had arisen, travelling at a rapid pace, they cleared the cultivated country, and were involved in the wild passes of Mount Algidus.

Scarcely, however, had they wound out of sight, when gallopping at mad and reckless speed, down a wild wood-road on the northern side of the villa, there came a horseman bestriding a white courser, of rare symmetry and action, now almost black with sweat, and envelopped with foam-flakes.

The rider was the same singular-looking dark-complexioned boy, who had overheard the exclamation of Aulus Fulvius, concerning young Arvina, uttered at the head of the street Argiletum.

His body was bent over the rude saddle-bow with weariness, and he reeled to and fro, as if he would have fallen from his horse, when he pulled up at the door of the villa.

"I would speak," he said in a faint and faltering voice, "presently, with Hortensia—matters of life and death depend on it."

"The Gods avert the omen!" cried the woman, to whom he had addressed himself, "Hortensia hath gone but now to Rome, with young Julia, on the arrival of a message from Arvina."

"Too late! too late!"—cried the boy, beating his breast with both hands. "They are betrayed to death or dishonor!"

"How? what is this? what say you?" cried the chief slave of the farm, a person of some trust and importance, who had just come up.

"It was a tall slight fair-haired slave who bore the message—he called himself Jason—he rode a bay horse, did he not?" asked the new comer.

"He was! He did! A bay horse, with one white foot before, and a white star on his forehead. A rare beast from Numidia, or Cyrenaica," replied the steward, who was quite at home in the article of horse-flesh.

"He brought tidings that Arvina is sorely wounded?"

"He brought tidings! Therefore it was that they set forth at so short notice! He left the horse here, and was mounted on a black horse of the farm."

"Arvina is not wounded! That bay horse is Cethegus', the conspirator's! Arvina hath sent no message! They are betrayed, I tell you, man. Aulus Fulvius awaits them with a gang of desperadoes in the deep cleft of the hills, where the cross-road comes in by which you reach the Flaminian from the Labican way. Arm yourselves speedily and follow, else will they carry Julia to Catiline's camp in the Appenines, beside Fiesol! What there will befall her, Catiline's character best may inform you! Come—to arms—men! to horse, and follow!"

But ignorant of the person of the messenger, lacking an authorized head, fearful of taking the responsibility, and incurring the reproach, perhaps the punishment, of credulity, they loitered and hesitated; and, though they did at length get to horse and set out in pursuit, it was not till Hortensia's cavalcade had been gone above an hour.

Meanwhile, unconscious of what had occurred behind them, and eager only to arrive at Rome as speedily as possible, the ladies journeyed onward, with full hearts, in silence, and in sorrow.

There is a deep dark gorge in the mountain chain, through which this road lay, nearly a mile in length; with a fierce torrent on one hand, and a sheer face of craggy rocks towering above it on the other. Beyond the torrent, the chesnut woods hung black and gloomy along the precipitous slopes, with their ragged tree-tops distinctly marked against the clear obscure of the nocturnal sky.

Midway this gorge, a narrow broken path comes down a cleft in the rocky wall on the right hand side, as you go toward Rome, by which through a wild and broken country the Flaminian way can be reached, and by it the district of Etruria and the famous Val d'Arno.

They had just reached this point, and were congratulating themselves, on having thus accomplished the most difficult part of their journey, when the messenger, who rode in front, uttered a long clear whistle.

The twang of a dozen bowstrings followed, from some large blocks of stone which embarrassed the pass at the junction of the two roads, and both the Thracians who preceded the carnage, went down, one of them killed outright, the other, with his horse shot dead under him.

"Ho! Traitor!" shouted the latter, extricating himself from the dead charger, and hurling his javelin with fatal accuracy at the false slave, "thou at least shalt not boast of thy villainy! Treachery! treachery! Turn back, Hortensia! Fly, avus! to me! to me, comrades!"

But with a loud shout, down came young Aulus Fulvius, from the pass, armed, head to foot, as a Roman legionary soldier—down came the gigantic smith Caius Crispus, and fifteen men, at least, with blade and buckler, at his back.

The slaves fought desperately for their mistress' liberty or life; but the odds were too great, both in numbers and equipment; and not five minutes passed, before they were all cut down, and stretched out, dead or dying, on the rocky floor of the dark defile.

The strife ended, Aulus Fulvius strode quickly to the carpentum, which had been overturned in the affray, and which his lawless followers were already ransacking.

One of these wretches, his own namesake Aulus, the sword-smith's foreman, had already caught Julia in his licentious grasp, and was about to press his foul lips to her cheek, when the young patrician snatched her from his arms, and pushed him violently backward.

"Ho! fool and villain!" he exclaimed, "Barest thou to think such dainties are for thee? She is sacred to Catiline and vengeance!"

"This one, at least, then!" shouted the ruffian, making at Hortensia.

"Nor that one either!" cried the smith interposing; but as Aulus, the foreman, still struggled to lay hold of the Patrician lady, he very coolly struck him across the bare brow with the edge of his heavy cutting sword, cleaving him down to the teeth—"Nay! then take that, thou fool."—Then turning to Fulvius, he added; "He was a brawler always, and would have kept no discipline, now or ever."

"Well done, smith!" replied Aulus Fulvius. "The same fate to all who disobey orders! We have no time for dalliance now; it will be day ere long, and we must be miles hence ere it dawns! Bind me Hortensia, firmly, to yon chesnut tree, stout smith; but do not harm her. We too have mothers!" he added with a singular revulsion of feeling at such a moment. "For you, my beauty, we will have you consoled by a warmer lover than that most shallow-pated fool and sophist, Arvina. Come! I say come! no one shall harm you!" and without farther words, despite all her struggles and remonstrances, he bound a handkerchief tightly under her chin to prevent her cries, wrapped her in a thick crimson pallium, and springing upon his charger, with the assistance of the smith, placed her before him on the saddle-cloth, and set off a furious pace, through the steep by-path, leaving the defile tenanted only by the dying and the dead, with the exception of Hortensia, who rent the deaf air in vain with frantic cries of anguish, until at last she fainted, nature being too weak for the endurance of such prolonged agony.

About an hour afterward, she was released and carried to her Roman mansion, alive and unharmed in body, but almost frantic with despair, by the party of slaves who had come up, too late to save her Julia, under the guidance of the young unknown.

He, when he perceived that his efforts had been useless, and when he learned how Julia had been carried off by the conspirators, leaving the party to escort Hortensia, and bear their slaughtered comrades homeward, rode slowly and thoughtfully away, into the recesses of the wild country whither Aulus had borne his captive, exclaiming in a low silent voice with a clinched hand, and eyes turned heavenward, "I will die, ere dishonor reach her! Aid me! aid me, thou Nemesis—aid me to save, and avenge!"



CHAPTER IX.

THE MULVIAN BRIDGE.

Under which king, Bezonian? Speak, or die! TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

On that same night, and nearly at the same hour wherein the messenger of Aulus Fulvius arrived at the Latin villa, there was a splendid banquet given in a house near the forum.

It was the house of Decius Brutus, unworthy bearer of a time-honored name, the husband of the infamous Sempronia.

At an earlier hour of the evening, a great crowd had been gathered round the doors, eager to gaze on the ambassadors of the Highland Gauls, who, their mission to Rome ended unsuccessfully, feasted there for the last time previous to their departure.

As it grew dark, however, tired of waiting in the hope of seeing the plaided warriors depart, the throng had dispersed, and with exception of the city watches and the cohorts, which from hour to hour perambulated them, the streets were unusually silent, and almost deserted.

There was no glare of lights from the windows of Brutus' house, as there would be in these days, and in modern mansions, to indicate the scene of festivity; for it was in the inmost chamber, of the most secluded suite of apartments, that the boards had been spread for the comissatio, or nocturnal revel.

The cna, or dinner, had been partaken by all the guests previous to their arrival at their entertainer's, and the tables were laid only with light dainties and provocatives to thirst, such as salted meats and fishes, the roe of the sturgeon highly seasoned, with herbs and fruits, and pastry and confections, of all kinds.

Rich urns, with heaters, containing hot spiced wines, prepared with honey, smoked on the boards of costly citrean wood, intermixed with crystal vases filled with the rarest vintages of the Falernian hills, cooled and diluted with snow-water.

And around the circular tables, on the tapestried couches, reclined the banqueters of both sexes, quaffing the rich wines to strange toasts, jesting, and laughing wildly, singing at times themselves as the myrtle branch and the lute went round, at times listening to the licentious chaunts of the unveiled and almost unrobed dancing girls, or the obscene and scurrilous buffoonery of the mimes and clowns, who played so conspicuous a part in the Roman entertainments of a later period.

Among these banqueters there was not a single person not privy to the conspiracy, and few who have not been introduced already to the acquaintance of the reader, but among these few was Sempronia—Sempronia, who could be all things, at all times, and to all persons—who with all the softness and grace and beauty of the most feminine of her sex, possessed all the daring, energy, vigor, wisdom of the bravest and most intriguing man—accomplished to the utmost in all the liberal arts, a poetess and minstrel unrivalled by professional performers, a dancer more finished and voluptuous than beseemed a Roman matron, a scholar in both tongues, the Greek as well as her own, and priding herself on her ability to charm the gravest and most learned sages by the modesty of her bearing and the wealth of her intellect, as easily as the most profligate debauchees by her facetious levity, her loose wit, and her abandonment of all restraint to the wildest license.

On this evening she had strained every nerve to fascinate, to dazzle, to astonish.

She had danced as a bacchanal, with her luxuriant hair dishevelled beneath a crown of vine leaves, with her bright shoulders and superb bust displayed at every motion by the displacement of the panther's skin, which alone covered them, timing her graceful steps to the clang of the silver cymbals which she waved and clashed with her bare arms above her stately head, and showing off the beauties of her form in attitudes more classically graceful, more studiously indelicate, than the most reckless figurante of our days.

She had sung every species of melody and rythm, from the wildest dithyrambic to the severest and most grave alcaic; she had struck the lute, calling forth notes such as might have performed the miracles attributed to Orpheus and Amphion.

She had exerted her unrivalled learning so far as to discourse eloquently in the uncouth and almost unknown tongues of Germany and Gaul.

For she had Gaulish hearers, Gaulish admirers, whom, whether from mere female vanity, whether from the awakening of some strange unbridled passion, or whether from some deeper cause, she was bent on delighting.

For mixed in brilliant contrast with the violet and flower enwoven tunics, with the myrtle-crowned perfumed love-locks of the Roman feasters, were seen the gay and many-chequered plaids, the jewelled weapons, and loose lion-like tresses of the Gallic Highlanders, and the wild blue eyes, sharp and clear as the untamed falcon's, gazing in wonder or glancing in childlike simplicity at the strange scenes and gorgeous luxuries which amazed all their senses.

The tall and powerful young chief, who had on several occasions attracted the notice of Arvina, and whom he had tracked but a few days before into this very house, reclined on the same couch with its accomplished mistress, and it was on him that her sweetest smiles, her most speaking glances were levelled, for him that her charms were displayed so unreservedly and boldly.

And the eyes of the young Gaul flashed at times a strange fire, but it was difficult to tell, if it were indignation or desire that kindled that sharp flame—and his cheek burned with a hectic and unwonted hue, but whether it was the hue of shame or passion, what eye could determine.

One thing alone was evident, that he encouraged her in her wild licence, and affected, if he did not feel, the most decided admiration for her beauty.

His hand had toyed with hers, his fingers had strayed through the mazes of her superb raven ringlets, his lip had pressed hers unrebuked, and his ear had drunk in long murmuring low-breathed sighs, and whispers unheard by any other.

Her Roman lovers, in other words two-thirds of those present, for she was no chary dame, looked at each other, some with a sneering smile, some with a shrewd and knowing glance, and some with ill-dissembled jealousy, but not one of them all, so admirable was her dissimulation—if that may be called admirable, which is most odious—could satisfy himself, whether she was indeed captivated by the robust and manly beauty of the young barbarian, or whether it was merely a piece of consummate acting, the more to attach him to their cause.

It might have been observed had the quick eye of Catiline been there, prompt to read human hearts as if they were written books—that the older envoys looked with suspicious and uneasy glances, at the demeanor of their young associate, that they consulted one another from time to time with grave and searching eyes, and that once or twice, when Sempronia, who alone of those present understood their language, was at a distance, they uttered a few words in Gaelic, not in the most agreeable or happiest accent.

Wilder and wilder waxed the revelry, and now the slaves withdrew, and breaking off into pairs or groups, the guests dispersed themselves among the peristyles, dimly illuminated with many twinkling lamps, and shrubberies of myrtle and laurestinus which adorned the courts and gardens of the proud mansions.

Some to plot deeds of private revenge, private cruelty—some to arrange their schemes of public insurrection—some to dally in secret corners with the fair patricians—some to drain mightier draughts than they had yet partaken, some to gamble for desperate stakes, all to drown care and the anguish of conscious guilt, in the fierce pleasure of excitement.

Apart from the rest, stood two of the elder Gauls, in deep and eager conference—one the white-headed chief, and leader of the embassy, the other a stately and noble-looking man of some forty-five or fifty years.