* * * * *

The letter being written and approved by those who were present, it was placed by Nichomachus in the hands of the herald.

* * * * *

No one can marvel, my Curtius, that a letter in the terms of Aurelian's should be rejected, nor that it should provoke such an answer as Zenobia's. It has served merely to exasperate passions which were already enough excited. It was entirely in the power of the Emperor to have terminated the contest, by the proposal of conditions which Palmyra would have gladly accepted, and by which Rome would have been more profited and honored than it can be by the reduction and ruin of a city and kingdom like this. But it is too true, that Aurelian is rather a soldier than an Emperor. A victory got by blood is sweeter far to him, I fear, than tenfold wider conquests won by peaceful negotiations.

The effect of the taunting and scornful answer of the Queen has been immediately visible in the increased activity and stir in the camp of Aurelian. Preparations are going on for renewed assaults upon the walls upon a much larger scale than before.

* * * * *

On the evening of the day on which the letter of Aurelian was received and answered, I resorted, according to my custom during the siege, to a part of the walls not far from the house of Gracchus, whence an extended view is had of the Roman works and camp. Fausta, as often before, accompanied me. She delights thus at the close of these weary, melancholy days, to walk forth, breathe the reviving air, observe the condition of the city, and from the towers upon the walls, watch the movements and labors of the enemy. The night was without moon or stars. Low and heavy clouds hung, but did not move, over our heads. The air was still, nay, rather dead, so deep was its repose.

'How oppressive is this gloom,' said Fausta, as we came forth upon the ramparts, and took our seat where the eye could wander unobstructed over the plain, 'and yet how gaily illuminated is this darkness by yonder belt of moving lights. It seems like the gorgeous preparation for a funeral. Above us and behind it is silent and dark. These show like the torches of the approaching mourners. The gods grant there be no omen in this.'

'I know not,' I replied. 'It may be so. To-day has, I confess it, destroyed the last hope in my mind that there might come a happy termination to this unwise and unnecessary contest. It can end now only in the utter defeat and ruin of one of the parties—and which that shall be I cannot doubt. Listen, Fausta, to the confused murmur that comes from the camp of the Roman army, bearing witness to its numbers; and to those sounds of the hammer, the axe, and the saw, plied by ten thousand arms, bearing witness to the activity and exhaustless resources of the enemy, and you cannot but feel, that at last—it may be long first—but that at last, Palmyra must give way. From what has been observed to-day, there is not a doubt that Aurelian has provided, by means of regular caravans to Antioch, for a constant supply of whatever his army requires. Reinforcements too, both of horse and foot, are seen daily arriving, in such numbers as more than to make good those who have been lost under the walls, or by the excessive heats of the climate.'

'I hear so,' said Fausta, 'but I will not despair. If I have one absorbing love, it is for Palmyra. It is the land of my birth, of my affections. I cannot tell you with what pride I have watched its growth, and its daily advancement in arts and letters, and have dwelt in fancy upon that future, when it should rival Rome, and surpass the traditionary glories of Babylon and Nineveh. O Lucius! to see now a black pall descending—these swollen clouds are an emblem of it—and settling upon the prospect and veiling it forever in death and ruin—I cannot believe it. It cannot have come to this. It is treason to give way to such fears. Where Zenobia is, final ruin cannot come.'

'It ought not, I wish it could not,' I replied, 'but my fears are that it will, and my fears now are convictions. Where now, my dear Fausta, are the so certainly expected reliefs from Armenia, from Persia?—Fausta, Palmyra must fall.'

'Lucius Piso, Palmyra shall not fall—I say it—and every Palmyrene says it—and what all say, is decreed. If we are true in our loyalty and zeal, the Romans will be wearied out. Lucius, could I but reach the tent of Aurelian, my single arm should rid Palmyra of her foe, and achieve her freedom.'

'No, Fausta, you could not do it.'

'Indeed I would and could. I would consent to draw infamy upon my head as a woman, if by putting off my sex and my nature too, I could by such an act give life to a dying nation, and what is as much, preserve Zenobia her throne.'

'Think not in that vein, Fausta. I would not that your mind should be injured even by the thought.'

'I do not feel it to be an injury,' she rejoined; 'it would be a sacrifice for my country, and the dearer, in that I should lose my good name in making it. I should be sure of one thing, that I should do it in no respect for my own glory. But let us talk no more of it. I often end, Lucius, when thinking of our calamities, and of a fatal termination of these contests to us, with dwelling upon one bright vision. Misfortune to us will bring you nearer to Julia.'

'The gods forbid that my happiness should be bought at such a price!'

'It will only come as an accidental consequence, and cannot disturb you. If Palmyra falls, the pride of Zenobia will no longer separate you.'

'But,' I replied, 'the prospect is not all so bright. Captive princes are by the usages of Rome often sacrificed, and Aurelian, if sometimes generous, is often cruel. Fears would possess me in the event of a capitulation or conquest, which I cannot endure to entertain.'

'O Lucius, you rate Aurelian too low, if you believe he could revenge himself upon a woman—and such a woman as Zenobia. I cannot believe it possible. No. If Palmyra falls it will give you Julia, and it will be some consolation even in the fall of a kingdom, that it brings happiness to two, whom friendship binds closer to me than any others.'

As Fausta said these words, we became conscious of the presence of a person at no great distance from us, leaning against the parapet of the wall, the upper part of the form just discernible.

'Who stands yonder?' said Fausta. 'It has not the form of a sentinel; besides, the sentinel paces by us to and fro without pausing. It may be Calpurnius, His legion is in this quarter. Let us move toward him.'

'No. He moves himself and comes toward us. How dark the night! I can make nothing of the form.'

The figure passed us, and unchallenged by the sentinel whom it met. After a brief absence it returned, and stopping as it came before us—

'Fausta!' said a voice—once heard, not to be mistaken.

'Zenobia!' said Fausta, and forgetting dignity, embraced her as a friend.

'What makes you here?' inquired Fausta;—'are there none in Palmyra to do your bidding, but you must be abroad at such an hour and such a place?'

''Tis not so fearful quite,' replied the Queen, 'as a battle-field, and there you trust me.'

'Never, willingly.'

'Then you do not love my honor?' said the Queen, taking Fausta's hand as she spoke.

'I love your safety better—no—no—what have I said—not better than your honor—and yet to what end is honor, if we lose the life in which it resides? I sometimes think we purchase human glory too dearly, at the sacrifice of quiet, peace, and security.'

'But you do not think so long. What is a life of indulgence and sloth? Life is worthy only in what it achieves. Should I have done better to have sat over my embroidery, in the midst of my slaves, all my days, than to have spent them in building up a kingdom?'

'O no—no—you have done right. Slaves can embroider: Zenobia cannot. This hand was made for other weapon than the needle.'

'I am weary,' said the Queen; 'let us sit;'—and saying so, she placed herself upon the low stone block, upon which we had been sitting, and drawing Fausta near her, she threw her left arm round her, retaining the hand she held clasped in her own.

'I am weary,' she continued, 'for I have walked nearly the circuit of the walls. You asked what makes me here. No night passes but I visit these towers and battlements. If the governor of the ship sleeps, the men at the watch sleep. Besides, I love Palmyra too well to sleep while others wait and watch. I would do my share. How beautiful is this!—the city girded by these strange fires! its ears filled with this busy music! Piso, it seems hard to believe an enemy, and such an enemy, is there, and that these sights and sounds are all of death!'

'Would it were not so, noble Queen! Would it were not yet too late to move in the cause of peace. If even at the risk of life I—'

'Forbear, Piso,' quickly rejoined the Queen; 'it is to no purpose. You have my thanks, but your Emperor has closed the door of peace forever. It is now war unto death. He may prove victor: it is quite possible: but I draw not back—no word of supplication goes from me. And every citizen of Palmyra, save a few sottish souls, is with me. It were worth my throne and my life, the bare suggestion of an embassy now to Aurelian. But let us not speak of this, but of things more agreeable. The day for trouble, the night for rest. Fausta, where is the quarter of Calpurnius? methinks it is hereabouts.'

'It is,' replied Fausta, 'just beyond the towers of the gate next to us; were it not for this thick night, we could see where at this time he is usually to be found, doing, like yourself, an unnecessary task.'

'He is a good soldier and a faithful—may he prove as true to you, my noble girl, as he has to me. Albeit I am myself a sceptic in love, I cannot but be made happier when I see hearts worthy of each other united by that bond. I trust that bright days are coming, when I may do you the honor I would. Piso, I am largely a debtor to your brother—and Palmyra as much. Singular fortune! that while Rome thus oppresses me, to Romans I should owe so much; to one twice my life, to another my army. But where, Lucius Piso, was your heart, that it fell not into the snare that caught Calpurnius?'

'My heart,' I replied, 'has always been Fausta's, from childhood—'

'Our attachment,' said Fausta, interrupting me, 'is not less than love, but greater. It is the sacred tie of nature, if I may say so, of brother to sister; it is friendship.'

'You say well,' replied the Queen. 'I like the sentiment. It is not less than love, but greater. Love is a delirium, a dream, a disease. It is full of disturbance. It is unequal, capricious, unjust; its felicity, when at the highest, is then nearest to deepest misery; a step, and it is into unfathomable gulfs of woe. While the object loved is as yet unattained, life is darker than darkest night. When it is attained, it is then oftener like the ocean heaving and tossing from its foundations, than the calm, peaceful lake, which mirrors friendship. And when lost, all is lost, the universe is nothing. Who will deny it the name of madness? Will love find entrance into Elysium? Will heaven know more than friendship? I trust not. It were an element of discord there, where harmony should reign perpetual.' After a pause, in which she seemed buried in thought, she added musingly—'What darkness rests upon the future! Life, like love, is itself but a dream; often a brief or a prolonged madness. Its light burns sometimes brightly, oftener obscurely, and with a flickering ray, and then goes out in smoke and darkness. How strange that creatures so exquisitely wrought as we are, capable of such thoughts and acts, rising by science, and art, and letters, almost to the level of gods, should be fixed here for so short a time, running our race with the unintelligent brute; living not so long as some, dying like all. Could I have ever looked out of this life into the possession of any other beyond it, I believe my aims would have been different. I should not so easily have been satisfied with glory and power: at least I think so; for who knows himself? I should then, I think, have reached after higher kinds of excellence, such for example as, existing more in the mind itself, could be of avail after death—could be carried out of the world—which power, riches, glory, cannot. The greatest service which any philosopher could perform for the human race, would be to demonstrate the certainty of a future existence, in the same satisfactory manner that Euclid demonstrates the truths of geometry. We cannot help believing Euclid if we would, and the truths he has established concerning lines and angles, influence us whether we will or not. Whenever the immortality of the soul shall be proved in like manner, so that men cannot help believing it, so that they shall draw it in with the first elements of all knowledge, then will mankind become a quite different race of beings. Men will be more virtuous and more happy. How is it possible to be either in a very exalted degree, dwelling as we do in this deep obscure, uncertain whether we are mere earth and water, or parts of the divinity; whether we are worms or immortals; men or gods; spending all our days in, at best, miserable perplexity and doubt? Do you remember, Fausta and Piso, the discourse of Longinus in the garden, concerning the probability of a future life?

'We do, very distinctly.'

'And how did it impress you?'

'It seemed to possess much likelihood,' replied Fausta, 'but that was all.'

'Yes,' responded the Queen, sighing deeply, 'that was indeed all. Philosophy, in this part of it, is a mere guess. Even Longinus can but conjecture. And what to his great and piercing intellect stands but in the strength of probability, to ours will, of necessity, address itself in the very weakness of fiction. As it is, I value life only for the brightest and best it can give now, and these to my mind are power and a throne. When these are lost I would fall unregarded into darkness and death.'

'But,' I ventured to suggest, 'you derive great pleasure and large profit from study; from the researches of philosophy, from the knowledge of history, from contemplation of the beauties of art, and the magnificence of nature. Are not these things that give worth to life? If you reasoned aright, and probed the soul well, would you not find that from these, as from hidden springs, a great deal of all the best felicity you have tasted, has welled up? Then, still more, from acts of good and just government; from promoting and witnessing the happiness of your subjects; from private friendship; from affections resting upon objects worthy to be loved—from these has no happiness come worth living for? And beside all this, from an inward consciousness of rectitude? Most of all this may still be yours, though you no longer sat upon a throne, and men held their lives but in your breath.

'From such sources,' replied Zenobia, 'some streams have issued it may be, that have added to what I have enjoyed; but, of themselves, they would have been nothing. The lot of earth, being of the low and common herd, is a lot too low and sordid to be taken if proffered. I thank the gods mine has been better. It has been a throne, glory, renown, pomp, and power; and I have been happy. Stripped of these, and without the prospect of immortality, and I would not live.'

With these words she rose quickly from her seat, saying that she had a further duty to perform. Fausta intreated to be used as an agent or messenger, but could not prevail. Zenobia darting from our side was in a moment lost in the surrounding darkness. We returned to the house of Gracchus.

In a few days, the vast preparations of the Romans being complete, a general assault was made by the whole army upon every part of the walls. Every engine, known to our modern methods of attacking walled cities, was brought to bear. Towers constructed in the former manner were wheeled up to the walls. Battering rams of enormous size, those who worked them being protected by sheds of hide, thundered on all sides at the gates and walls. Language fails to convey an idea of the energy, the fury, the madness of the onset. The Roman army seemed as if but one being, with such equal courage and contempt of danger and death was the dreadful work performed. But the Queen's defences have again proved superior to all the power of Aurelian. Her engines have dealt death and ruin in awful measure among the assailants. The moat and the surrounding plain are filled and covered with the bodies of the slain. As night came on after a long day of uninterrupted conflict, the troops of Aurelian, baffled and defeated at every point, withdrew to their tents, and left the city to repose.

The temples of the gods have resounded with songs of thanksgiving for this new deliverance, garlands have been hung around their images, and gifts laid upon their altars. Jews and Christians, Persians and Egyptians, after the manner of their worship, have added their voices to the general chorus.

Again there has been a pause. The Romans have rested after the late fierce assault to recover strength, and the city has breathed free. Many are filled with new courage and hope, and the discontented spirits are silenced. The praises of Zenobia, next to those of the gods, fill every mouth. The streets ring with songs composed in her honor.

* * * * *

Another day of excited expectations and bitter disappointment.

It was early reported that forces were seen approaching from the east, on the very skirts of the plain, and that they could be no other than the long-looked-for Persian army. Before its approach was indicated to those upon the highest towers of the gates, by the clouds of dust hovering over it, it was evident from the extraordinary commotion in the Roman intrenchments, that somewhat unusual had taken place. Their scouts must have brought in early intelligence of the advancing foe. Soon as the news spread through the city the most extravagant demonstrations of joy broke forth on all sides. Even the most moderate and sedate could not but give way to expressions of heartfelt satisfaction. The multitudes poured to the walls to witness a combat upon which the existence of the city seemed suspended.

'Father,' said Fausta, after Gracchus had communicated the happy tidings, 'I cannot sit here—let us hasten to the towers of the Persian gate, whence we may behold the encounter.'

'I will not oppose you,' replied Gracchus, 'but the sight may cost you naught but tears and pain. Persia's good will, I fear, will not be much, nor manifested by large contributions to our cause. If it be what I suspect—but a paltry subdivision of her army, sent here rather to be cut in pieces than aught else—it will but needlessly afflict and irritate.'

'Father, I would turn away from no evil that threatens Palmyra. Besides, I should suffer more from imagined, than from real disaster. Let us hasten to the walls.'

We flew to the Persian gate.

'But why,' asked Fausta, addressing Gracchus on the way, 'are you not more elated? What suspicion do you entertain of Sapor? Will he not be sincerely desirous to aid us?'

'I fear not,' replied Gracchus. 'If we are to be the conquering party in this war, he will send such an army as would afterward make it plain that he had intended an act of friendship, and done the duty of an ally. If we are to be beaten, he will lose little in losing such an army, and will easily, by placing the matter in certain lights, convince the Romans that their interests had been consulted, rather than ours, We can expect no act of true friendship from Sapor. Yet he dares not abandon us. Were Hormisdas upon the throne, our prospects were brighter.'

'I pray the gods that ancient wretch may quickly perish then,' cried Fausta, 'if such might be the consequences to us. Why is he suffered longer to darken Persia and the earth with his cruel despotism!'

'His throne shakes beneath him,' replied Gracchus; 'a breath may throw it down.'

As we issued forth upon the walls, and then mounted to the battlements of the highest tower, whence the eye took in the environs of the city, and even the farthest verge of the plain, and overlooked, like one's own court-yard, the camp and intrenchments of the Romans—we beheld with distinctness the Persian forces within less than two Roman miles. They had halted and formed, and there apparently awaited the enemy.

No sooner had Gracchus surveyed well the scene, than he exclaimed, 'The gods be praised! I have done Sapor injustice. Yonder forces are such as may well call forth all the strength of the Roman army. In that case there will be much for us to do. I must descend and to the post of duty.'

So saying he left us.

'I suppose,' said Fausta, 'in case the enemy be such as to draw off the larger part of the Roman army, sorties will be made from the gates upon their camp?'

'Yes,' I rejoined; 'if the Romans should suffer themselves to be drawn to a distance, and their forces divided, a great chance would fall into the hands of the city. But that they will not do. You perceive the Romans move not, but keep their station just where they are. They will oblige the Persians to commence the assault upon them in their present position, or there will be no battle.'

'I perceive their policy now,' said Fausta. 'And the battle being fought so near the walls, they are still as strongly beleaguered as ever—at least half their strength seems to remain within their intrenchments. See, see! the Persian army is on the march. It moves toward the city. Now again it halts.'

'It hopes to entice Aurelian from his position, so as to put power into our hands. But they will fail in their object.'

'Yes, I fear they will,' replied Fausta. 'The Romans remain fixed as statues in their place.'

'Is it not plain to you, Fausta,' said I, 'that the Persians conceive not the full strength of the Roman army? Your eye can now measure their respective forces.'

'It is too plain, alas!' said Fausta. 'If the Persians should defeat the army now formed, there is another within the trenches to be defeated afterwards, Now they move again. Righteous gods, interpose in our behalf!'

At this moment indeed the whole Persian army put itself into quick and decisive motion, as if determined to dare all—and achieve all for their ally, if fate should so decree. It was a sight beautiful to behold, but of an interest too painful almost to be endured. The very existence of a city and an empire seemed to hang upon its issues; and here, looking on and awaiting the decisive moment, was as it were the empire itself assembled upon the walls of its capital, with which, if it should fall, the kingdom would also fall, and the same ruin cover both. The Queen herself was there to animate and encourage by her presence, not only the hearts of all around, but even the distant forces of the Persians, who, from their position, might easily behold the whole extent of the walls and towers, covered with an innumerable multitude of the besieged inhabitants, who, by waving their hands, and by every conceivable demonstration, gave them to feel more deeply than they could otherwise have done, how much was depending upon their skill and bravery.

Soon after the last movement of the Persians, the light troops of either army encountered, and by a discharge of arrows and javelins, commenced the attack. Then in a few moments, it being apparently impossible to restrain the impatient soldiery, the battle became general. The cry of the onset and the clash of arms fell distinctly upon our ears. Long, long, were the opposing armies mingled together in one undistinguishable mass, waging an equal fight. Now it would sway toward the one side, and now toward the other, heaving and bending as a field of ripe grain to the fitful breeze. Fausta sat with clenched hands and straining eye, watching the doubtful fight, and waiting the issue in speechless agony. A deep silence, as of night and death, held the whole swarming multitude of the citizens, who hardly seemed as if they dared breathe while what seemed the final scene was in the act of being performed.

Suddenly a new scene, and more terrific because nearer, burst upon our sight. At a signal given by Zenobia from the high tower which she occupied, the gates below us flew open, and Zabdas, at the head of all the flower of the Palmyra cavalry, poured forth, followed closely from this and the other gates by the infantry. The battle now raged between the walls and the Roman intrenchments as well as beyond. The whole plain was one field of battle and slaughter. Despair lent vigor and swiftness to the horse and foot of Palmyra; rage at the long continued contest, revenge for all they had lost and endured, nerved the Roman arm, and gave a double edge to its sword. Never before, my Curtius, had I beheld a fight in which every blow seemed so to carry with it the whole soul, boiling with wrath, of him who gave it. Death sat upon every arm.

'Lucius!' cried Fausta, I started, for it had been long that she had uttered not a word.

'Lucius! unless my eye grows dim and lies, which the gods grant, the Persians! look! they give way—is it not so? Immortal gods, forsake not my country!'

'The battle may yet turn,' I said, turning my eyes where she pointed, and seeing it was so—'despair not, dear Fausta. If the Persians yield—see, Zabdas has mounted the Roman intrenchments.'

'Yes—they fly,' screamed Fausta, and would madly have sprung over the battlements, but that I seized and held her. At the same moment a cry arose that Zabdas was slain—her eye caught his noble form as it fell backwards from his horse, and with a faint exclamation, 'Palmyra is lost!' fell lifeless into my arms.

While I devoted myself to her recovery, cries of distress and despair fell from all quarters upon my ear. And when I had succeeded in restoring her to consciousness, the fate of the day was decided—the Persians were routed—the Palmyrenes were hurrying in wild confusion before the pursuing Romans, and pressing into the gates.

'Lucius,' said Fausta, 'I am sorry for this weakness. But to sit as it were chained here, the witness of such disaster, is too much for mere mortal force. Could I but have mingled in that fight! Ah, how cruel the slaughter of those flying troops! Why do they not turn, and at least die with their faces toward the enemy? Let us now go and seek Calpurnius and Gracchus.'

'We cannot yet, Fausta, for the streets are thronged with this flying multitude.'

'It is hard to remain here, the ears rent, and the heart torn by these shrieks of the wounded and dying. How horrible this tumult! It seems as if the world were expiring. There—the gates are swinging upon their hinges; they are shut. Let us descend.'

We forced our way as well as we could through the streets, crowded now with soldiers and citizens—the soldiers scattered and in disorder, the citizens weeping and alarmed—some hardly able to drag along themselves, others sinking beneath the weight of the wounded whom they bore upon their shoulders, or upon lances and shields as upon a litter. The way was all along obstructed by the bodies of men and horses who had there fallen and died, their wounds allowing them to proceed no further, or who had been run down and trampled to death in the tumult and hurry of the entrance.

After a long and weary struggle, we reached the house of Gracchus—still solitary—for neither he nor Calpurnius had returned. The slaves gathered around us to know the certainty and extent of the evil. When they had learned it, their sorrow for their mistress, whom they loved for her own sake, and whom they saw overwhelmed with grief, made them almost forget that they only were suffering these things who had inflicted a worse injury upon themselves. I could not but admire a virtue which seemed of double lustre from the circumstances in which it was manifested.

Calpurnius had been in the thickest of the fight, but had escaped unhurt. He was near Zabdas when he fell, and revenged his death by hewing down the soldier who had pierced him with his lance.

'Zabdas,' said Calpurnius, when in the evening we recalled the sad events of the day, 'was not instantly killed by the thrust of the spear, but falling backwards from his horse, found strength and life enough remaining to raise himself upon his knee, and cheer me on, as I flew to revenge his death upon the retreating Roman. As I returned to him, having completed my task, he had sunk upon the ground, but was still living, and his eye bright with its wonted fire. I raised him in my arms, and lifting him upon my horse, moved toward the gate, intending to bring him within the walls. But he presently entreated me to desist.'

'"I die," said he; "it is all in vain, noble Piso. Lay me at the root of this tree, and that shall be my bed and its shaft my monument."

'I took him from the horse as he desired.'

'"Place me," said he, "with my back against the tree, and my face toward the intrenchments, that while I live I may see the battle. Piso, tell the Queen that to the last hour I am true to her. It has been my glory in life to live but for her, and my death is a happiness, dying for her. Her image swims before me now, and over her hovers a winged victory. The Romans fly—I knew it would be so—the dogs cannot stand before the cavalry of Palmyra—they never could—they fled at Antioch. Hark!—there are the shouts of triumph—bring me my horse—Zenobia! live and reign forever!"

'With these words and in this happy delusion, his head fell upon his bosom, and he died. I returned to the conflict; but it had become a rout, and I was borne along with the rushing throng toward the gates.'

After a night of repose and quiet, there has come another day of adversity. The hopes of the city have again been raised, only again to be disappointed. The joyful cry was heard from the walls in the morning, that the Saracens and Armenians with united forces were in the field. Coming so soon upon the fatiguing duty of the last day, and the Roman army not having received reinforcements from the West, it was believed that the enemy could not sustain another onset as fierce as that of the Persians. I hastened once more to the walls—Fausta being compelled by Gracchus to remain within the palace—to witness as I believed another battle.

The report I found true. The allied forces of those nations were in sight—the Romans were already drawn from their encampment to encounter them. The same policy was pursued on their part as before. They awaited the approach of the new enemy just on the outer side of their works. The walls and towers as far as the eye could reach were again swarming with the population of Palmyra.

For a long time neither army seemed disposed to move.

'They seem not very ready to try the fortune of another day,' said a citizen to me standing by my side. 'Nor do I wonder. The Persians gave them rough handling. A few thousands more on their side, and the event would not have been as it was. Think you not the sally under Zabdas was too long deferred?'

'It is easy afterward,' I replied, 'to say how an action should have been performed. It requires the knowledge and wisdom of a god never to err. There were different judgments I know, but for myself I believe the Queen was right; that is, whether Zabdas had left the gates earlier or later, the event would have been the same.'

'What means that?' suddenly exclaimed my companion; 'see you yonder herald bearing a flag of truce, and proceeding from the Roman ranks? It bodes no good to Palmyra. What think you the purpose is?'

'It may be but to ask a forbearance of arms for a few hours, or a day perhaps. Yet it is not the custom of Rome. I cannot guess.'

'That can I,' exclaimed another citizen on my other side. 'Neither in the Armenians nor yet the Saracens can so much trust be reposed as in a Christian or a Jew. They are for the strongest. Think you they have come to fight? Not if they can treat to better purpose. The Romans, who know by heart the people of the whole earth, know them. Mark me, they will draw never a sword. As the chances are now, they will judge the Romans winners, and a little gold will buy them.'

'The gods forbid,' cried the other, 'that it should be so; they are the last hope of Palmyra. If they fail us, we must e'en throw open our gates, and take our fate at the mercy of Aurelian.'

'Never while I have an arm that can wield a sword, shall a gate of Palmyra swing upon its hinge to let in an enemy.'

'Food already grows short,' said the first; 'better yield than starve.'

'Thou, friend, art in no danger for many a day, if, as is fabled of certain animals, thou canst live on thine own fat. Or if it came to extremities, thou wouldst make a capital stew or roast for others.'

At which the surrounding crowd laughed heartily, while the fat man, turning pale, slunk away and disappeared.

'That man,' said one, 'would betray a city for a full meal.'

'I know him well,' said another; 'he is the earliest at the markets, where you may always see him feeling out with his fat finger the parts of meats that are kindred to himself. His soul, could it be seen, would be of the form of a fat kidney. His riches he values only as they can be changed into food. Were all Palmyra starved, he, were he sought, would be found in some deep-down vault, bedded in the choicest meats—enough to stand a year's siege, and leave his paunch as far about as 't is to-day. See, the Queen betrays anxiety. The gods shield her from harm!'

Zenobia occupied the same post of observation as before. She paced to and fro with a hasty and troubled step the narrow summit of the tower, where she had placed herself.

After no long-interval of time, the Roman herald was seen returning from the camp of the Armenians. Again he sallied forth from the tent of Aurelian, on the same errand. It was too clear now that negotiations were going on which might end fatally for Palmyra. Doubt, fear, anxiety, intense expectation kept the multitude around me in breathless silence, standing at fixed gaze, like so many figures of stone.

They stood not long in this deep and agonizing suspense; for no sooner did the Roman herald reach the tents of the allied armies, and hold brief parley with their chiefs, than he again turned toward the Roman intrenchments at a quick pace, and at the same moment the tents of the other party were struck, and while a part commenced a retreat, another and larger part moved as auxiliaries to join the camp of Aurelian.

Cries of indignation, rage, grief and despair, then burst from the miserable crowds, as with slow and melancholy steps they turned from the walls to seek again their homes. Zenobia was seen once to clasp her hands, turning her face toward the heavens. As she emerged from the tower and ascended her chariot, the enthusiastic throngs failed not to testify their unshaken confidence and determined spirit of devotion to her and her throne, by acclamations that seemed to shake the very walls themselves.

This last has proved a heavier blow to Palmyra than the former. It shows that their cause is regarded by the neighboring powers as a losing one, or already lost and that hope, so far as it rested upon their friendly interposition, must be abandoned. The city is silent and sad. Almost all the forms of industry having ceased, the inhabitants are doubly wretched through their necessary idleness; they can do little but sit and brood over their present deprivations, and utter their dark bodings touching the future. They who obtained their subsistence by ministering to the pleasures of others, are now the first to suffer; for there are none to employ their services. Streets, which but a little while ago resounded with notes of music and the loud laughter of those who lived to pleasure, are now dull and deserted. The brilliant shops are closed, the fountains forsaken, the Porticos solitary, or they are frequented by a few who resort to them chiefly to while away some of the melancholy hours that hang upon their hands. And they who are abroad seem not like the same people. Their step is now measured and slow—the head bent—no salutation greets the passing stranger or acquaintance, or only a few cold words of inquiry, which pass from cold lips into ears as cold. Apathy—lethargy— stupor—seem fast settling over all. They would indeed bury all, I believe, were it not that the parties of the discontented increase in number and power, which compels the friends of the Queen to keep upon the alert. The question of surrender is now openly discussed. 'It is useless,' it is said, 'to hold out longer. Better make the best terms we can. If we save the city by an early capitulation from destruction, coming off with our lives and a portion of our goods, it is more than we shall get if the act be much longer postponed. Every day of delay adds to our weakness, while it adds also to the vexation and rage of the enemy, who the more and longer he suffers, will be less inclined to treat us with indulgence.'

These may be said to have reason on their side, but the other party are inflamed with national pride and devotion to Zenobia, and no power of earth is sufficient to bend them. They are the principal party for numbers; much more for rank and political power. They will hold out till the very last moment—till it is reduced to a choice between death and capitulation; and, on the part of the Queen and the great spirits of Palmyra, death would be their unhesitating choice, were it not for the destruction of so many with them. They will therefore, until the last loaf of bread is divided, keep the gates shut; then throw them open, and meet the terms, whatever they may be, which the power of the conqueror may impose.

A formidable conspiracy has been detected, and the supposed chiefs of it seized and executed.

The design was to secure the person of the Queen, obtain by a violent assault one of the gates, and sallying out, deliver her into the hands of the Romans, who, with her in their power, could immediately put an end to the contest. There is little doubt that Antiochus was privy to it, although those who suffered betrayed him not, if that were the fact. But it has been urged with some force in his favor, that none who suffered would have felt regard enough for him to have hesitated to sacrifice him, if by doing so they could have saved their own lives or others.

Zenobia displayed her usual dauntless courage, her clemency, and her severity. The attack was made upon her, surrounded by her small body-guard, as she was returning toward evening from her customary visit of observation to the walls. It was sudden, violent, desperate; but the loyalty and bravery of the guards was more than a match for the assassins, aided too by the powerful arm of the Queen herself, who was no idle spectator of the fray. It was a well-laid plot, and but for an accidental addition which was made at the walls to the Queen's guard, might have succeeded; for the attack was made just at the Persian gate, and the keeper of the gate had been gained over. Had the guard been overpowered but for a moment, they would have shot the gate too quickly for the citizens to have roused to her rescue. Such of the conspirators as were not slain upon the spot were secured. Upon examination, they denied the participation of others than themselves in the attempt, and died, such of them as were executed, involving none in their ruin. The Queen would not permit a general slaughter of them, though urged to do so. 'The ends of justice and the safety of the city,' she said, 'would be sufficiently secured, if an example were made of such as seemed manifestly the chief movers. But there should be no indulgence of the spirit of revenge.' Those accordingly were beheaded, the others imprisoned.

While these long and weary days are passing away, Gracchus, Fausta, Calpurnius and myself are often at the palace of Zenobia. The Queen is gracious, as she ever is, but laboring under an anxiety and an inward sorrow, that imprint themselves deeply upon her countenance, and reveal themselves in a greater reserve of manner. While she is not engaged in some active service she is buried in thought, and seems like one revolving difficult and perplexing questions. Sometimes she breaks from these moments of reverie with some sudden question to one or another of those around her, from which we can obscurely conjecture the subjects of her meditations. With Longinus, Otho, and Gracchus she passes many of her hours in deep deliberation. At times, when apparently nature cries out for relief, she will join us as we sit diverting our minds by conversation upon subjects as far removed as possible from the present distresses, and will, as formerly, shed the light of her penetrating judgment upon whatever it is we discuss. But she soon falls back into herself again, and remains silent and abstracted, or leaves us and retreats to her private apartments.

* * * * *

Suddenly the Queen has announced a project which fills the city with astonishment at its boldness, and once more lights up hope within the bosoms of the most desponding.

Soon as her own mind had conceived and matured it, her friends and counsellors were summoned to receive it from her, and pronounce their judgment. Would that I could set before you, my Curtius, this wonderful woman as she stood before us at this interview. Never before did she seem so great, or of such transcendent beauty—if under such circumstances such a thought may be expressed. Whatever of melancholy had for so long a time shed its gloom over her features was now gone. The native fire of her eye was restored and doubled, as it seemed, by the thoughts which she was waiting to express. A spirit greater than even her own, appeared to animate her, and to breathe an unwonted majesty into her form, and over the countenance.

She greeted all with the warmth of a friend, and besought them to hear her while she presented a view of the present condition of their affairs, and then proposed what she could not but believe might still prove a means of final deliverance—at least, it might deserve their careful consideration. After having gone over the course that had been pursued and defended it, as that alone which became the dignity and honor of a sovereign and independent power, she proceeded thus:

'We are now, it is obvious to all, at the last extremity. If no new outlet be opened from the difficulties which environ us, a few days will determine our fate. We must open our gates and take such mercy as our conquerors may bestow. The provision laid up in the public granaries is nearly exhausted. Already has it been found necessary greatly to diminish the amount of the daily distribution. Hope in any power of our own seems utterly extinct: if any remain, it rests upon foreign interposition, and of this I do not despair. I still rely upon Persia. I look with confidence to Sapor for farther and yet larger succors. In the former instance, it was apprehended by many—I confess I shared the apprehension—that there would be on the part of Persia but a parade of friendship, with nothing of reality. But you well know it was far otherwise. There was a sincere and vigorous demonstration in our behalf. Persia never fought a better field, and with slightly larger numbers would have accomplished our rescue. My proposition is, that we sue again at the court of Sapor—no, not again, for the first was a free-will offering—and that we fail not, I would go myself my own ambassador, and solicit what so solicited, my life upon it, will not be refused. You well know that I can bear with me jewels gathered during a long reign of such value as to plead eloquently in my cause, since the tithe of them would well repay the Persian for all his kingdom might suffer for our sakes.'

'What you propose, great Queen,' said Longinus, as Zenobia paused, 'agrees with your whole life. But how can we, who hold you as we do, sit in our places and allow you alone to encounter the dangers of such an enterprise? For without danger it cannot be—from the robber of the desert, from the Roman, from the Persian.' In disguise and upon the road, you may suffer the common fate of those who travel where, as now, marauders of all nations swarm; Sapor may, in his capricious policy, detain you prisoner; Aurelian may intercept. Let your servants prevail with you to dismiss this thought from your mind. You can name no one of all this company who will not plead to be your substitute.'

There was not one present who did not spring upon his feet, and express his readiness to undertake the charge.

'I thank you all,' said the Queen, 'but claim, in this perhaps the last act of my reign, to be set free in your indulgence to hold an unobstructed course. If in your honest judgments you confess that of all who could appear at the court of Sapor, I should appear there as the most powerful pleader for Palmyra, it is all I ask you to determine. Is such your judgment?'

'It is,' they all responded—'without doubt it is.'

'Then am I resolved. And the enterprise itself you judge wise and of probable success?'

'We do. The reasons are just upon which it is founded. It is greatly conceived, and the gods giving you safe conduct to Sapor, we cannot doubt a happy result.'

'Then all that remains is, to contrive the manner of escape from the city and through the Roman camp.'

'There is first one thing more,' said the Princess Julia, suddenly rising from her mother's side, but with a forced and trembling courage, 'which remains for me to do. If there appear any want of maidenly reserve in what I say, let the cause, good friends, for which I speak and act, be my excuse. It is well known to you who are familiar with the councils of the state, that not many months past Persia sought through me an alliance with Palmyra. But in me, you, my mother and Queen, have hitherto found an uncomplying daughter—and you, Fathers, a self-willed Princess. I now seek what before I have shunned. Although I know not the Prince Hormisdas—report speaks worthily of him—but of him I think not—yet if by the offer of myself I could now help the cause of my country, the victim is ready for the altar. Let Zenobia bear with her not only the stones torn from her crown, but this which she so often has termed her living jewel, and if the others, first proffered, fail to reach the Persian's heart, then, but not till then, add the other to the scale. If it weigh to buy deliverance and prosperity to Palmyra—though I can never be happy—yet I shall be happy if the cause of happiness to you.'

'My noble child!' said Zenobia, 'I cannot have so startled the chiefs of Palmyra by a new and unthought-of project, as I am now amazed in my turn. I dreamed not of this. But I cannot hinder you in your purpose. It ensures success to your country; and to be the instrument of that, will be a rich compensation for even the largest sacrifice of private affections.'

The counsellors and senators who were present expressed a great, and I doubt not sincere unwillingness that so dangerous a service should be undertaken by those whom they so loved, and whom beyond all others they would shield with their lives from the very shadow of harm. But they were overcome by the determined spirit both of the Queen and Julia, and by their own secret conviction that it was the only act in the power of mortals by which the existence of the empire and city could be preserved.

At this point of the interview, Calpurnius, whom we had missed, entered, and learning what had passed, announced that by a channel not to be mistrusted, he had received intelligence of a sudden rising in Persia, of the assassination of Sapor, and the elevation of Hormisdas to the throne of his father. This imparted to all the liveliest pleasure, and seemed to take away from the project of the Queen every remaining source of disquietude and doubt. Calpurnius at the same moment was besought, and offered himself to serve as the Queen's companion and guide. The chosen friend of Hormisdas, and whose friendship he had not forfeited by his flight—no one could so well as he advocate her cause with the new king.

'But how is it,' inquired Longinus, 'that you obtain foreign intelligence, the city thus beset?'

'It may well be asked,' replied Calpurnius. 'It is through the intelligence and cunning of a Jew well known in Palmyra, and throughout the world I believe, called Isaac. By him was I rescued from Persian captivity, and through him have I received letters thence, ever since the city has been besieged. He is acquainted with a subterranean passage—in the time of Trajan, he has informed me, a public conduit, but long since much choked and dry—by which one may pass from the city under and beyond the lines of the Roman intrenchments, emerging into a deep ravine or fissure, grown thickly over with vines and olives. Once it was of size sufficient to admit an elephant with his rider; now, he says, has it become so obstructed, and in some places so fallen in, that it is with difficulty that a dromedary of but the common size can force his way through.'

'Through this then the Queen may effect her escape,' said Longinus.

'With perfect ease and security,' rejoined Calpurnius. 'At the outlet, Isaac shall be in waiting with the fleetest dromedaries of the royal stables.'

'We are satisfied,' said Longinus; 'let it be as you say. The gods prosper the pious service!'

So ended the conversation.

Of the ancient aqueduct or conduit, you have already heard from me; it is the same by which Isaac has transmitted my late letters to Portia—which I trust you have received and read. To Portia alone—be not offended—do I pour out my whole soul. From her learn more of what relates to the Princess.

I returned from the palace of Zenobia overwhelmed with a thousand painful sensations. But this I need not say.

Fausta, upon learning the determination of the Queen, which had been communicated not even to her, exclaimed—'There, Lucius, I have always told you Palmyra brought forth women! Where in the wide world shall two be found to match Zenobia and Julia? But when is the time fixed for the flight?'

'To-morrow night.'

'I will to the palace. These may be the last hours permitted by the gods to our friendship. I must not lose one of them.'

I went not there again.

Late on the evening of the following day Fausta returned—her countenance betraying what she had suffered in parting from those two, her bosom friends. It was long ere she could possess herself so far as to give to Gracchus and myself a narrative of what had occurred. To do it, asked but few words.

'We have passed the time,' she said at length, 'as you might suppose those would about to be separated—forever; yes, I feel that I have seen them for the last time. It is like a conviction inspired by the gods. We did naught till the hour of attiring for the flight arrived, but sit, look upon each other, embrace, and weep. Not that Zenobia, always great, lost the true command of herself, or omitted aught that should be done; but that she was a woman, and a mother, and a friend, as well as a Queen and a divinity. But I can say no more.'

'Yet one thing,' she suddenly resumed; 'alas! I had well nigh forgotten it—it should have been said first. What think you? the Indian slave, Sindarina, was to accompany the Queen, but at the hour of departure she was missing. Her chamber was empty—the Arabian disguise, in which all were to be arrayed, lying on her bed—she herself to be found neither there nor any where within the palace. Another of the Queen's women was chosen in her place. What make you of it?'

'Treason!—treachery!' cried Gracchus, and springing from his seat, shouted for a horse.

'The gods forgive me,' cried the afflicted Gracchus, 'that this has been forgotten! Why, why did I not lay to heart the hints which you dropped!'

'In very truth,' I replied, 'they were almost too slight to build even a suspicion upon. The Queen heeded them not—and I myself had dismissed them from my mind not less than yourself.'

'Not a moment is to be lost,' said Gracchus; 'the slave must be found, and all whom we suspect seized.'

The night was passed in laborious search, both of the slave and Antiochus. The whole city was abroad in a common cause. All the loose companions of Antiochus and the young princes were taken and imprisoned; the suspected leaders in the affair, after a scrutinizing search and public proclamation, could not be found. The inference was clear, agonizing as clear, that the Queen's flight had been betrayed.

Another day has revealed the whole. Isaac, who acted as guide through the conduit, and was to serve in the same capacity till the party were secure within a Persian fortress, not far from the banks of the Euphrates, has, by a messenger, a servant of the palace, found means to convey a relation of what befel after leaving Palmyra.

'Soon,' he says, 'as the shades of evening fell, the Queen, the Princess Julia, Nichomachus, a slave, and Calpurnius, arrayed in the garb of Arabs of the desert, together with a guard of ten soldiers, selected for their bravery and strength, met by different routes at the mouth of the old conduit. So noble a company had I never before the charge of. Thou wouldst never have guessed the Queen through the veil of her outlandish garment. She became it well. Not one was more a man than she. For the Princess, a dull eye would have seen through her. Entering a little way in utter darkness, I then bid them stand while I lighted torches. The Queen was near me the while, and asked me the length of the passage, and whether the walls were of that thickness as to prevent the voice from being heard above.

'"Till we reach one particular spot, where the arch is partly fallen in," I said, "we may use our tongues as freely and as loud as we please; at that place there will be need of special caution, as it is directly beneath the Roman intrenchments. Of our approach thereto I will give timely warning."

'I took occasion to say, that I was sorry the Queen of Palmyra should be compelled to pass through so gloomy a cavern, but doubtless he who was with Deborah and Judith would not forsake her who was so fast a friend to his people, and who, if rumor might be believed, was even herself one of them. This, Roman, you will doubtless think bold; but how could one who was full refrain? I even added, "Fear not; he who watches over Judah and Israel, will not fail to appear for one by whose arm their glories are to be restored." The Queen at that smiled, and if a countenance may be read, which I hold it can, as well as a book, it spoke favorable things for Jerusalem.

'When our torches were kindled, we went on our way; a narrow way and dark. We went in silence too, for I quickly discerned that minds and hearts were too busy with themselves and their own sorrows and fears to choose to be disturbed. Ah, Roman, how many times harder the lot of the high than the low! When we drew nigh to the fissure in the arch, the torches were again extinguished, and we proceeded at a snail's pace and with a hyena's foot while we were passing within a few feet of the then, as I doubted not, sleeping Romans. As we came beneath the broken and open part, I was startled by the sound of voices. Soldiers were above conversing. As we paused through apprehension, a few words were distinctly heard.

'"The times will not bear it," muttered one. "'Tis a vain attempt."

'"His severity is cruel," said another. "Gods! when before was it heard of, that a soldier, and such a one, for what every one does whom chance favors, should be torn limb from limb? The trees that wrenched Stilcho asunder, ere they grow too stiff, may serve a turn on 'Hand-to-his-Sword' himself. He will fatten on these starved citizens when he climbs over their walls."

'"O no, by Jupiter!" said the first, "it is far likelier he will let them off, as he did at Tyana, and we lose our sport. It is his own soldiers' blood he loves."

'"He may yet learn," replied the other, "that soldiers wear weapons for one purpose as well as another. Hark! what noise was that?"

'"It was but some rat at work within this old arch, Come, let us to bed."

'They moved away, and we, breathing again, passed along, and soon re-lighted our torches.

'After walking a weary distance from this point, and encountering many obstacles, we at length reached the long-desired termination. The dromedaries were in readiness, and mounting them without delay, we ascended the steep sides of the ravine, and then at a rapid pace sought the open plains. When they were attained, I considered that we were out of all danger from the Romans, and had only to apprehend the ordinary dangers of this route during a time of war, when freebooters of all the neighboring tribes are apt to abound. "Here," I said to the Queen, "we will put our animals to their utmost speed, as the way is plain and smooth—having regard only," I added, "to your and the Princess's strength."—"On, on, in the name of the gods!" said they both; "we can follow as fast as you shall lead." And on we flew with the speed of the wind. The Queen's animals were like spirits of the air, with such amazing fleetness and sureness of foot did they shoot over the surface of the earth. The way was wholly our own. We met none; we saw none. Thrice we paused to relieve those not accustomed to such speed, or to the peculiar motion of this animal. But at each resting place, the Queen with impatience hastened us away, saying, that "rest could be better had at once when we had crossed the river; and once upon the other bank, and we were safe."

'The first flush of morning was upon the sky as we came within sight of the valley of the Euphrates. The river was itself seen faintly gleaming as we wound down the side of a gentle hill. The country here was broken, as it had been for many of the last miles we had rode—divided by low ridges, deep ravines, and stretches of wood and bush. So that to those approaching the banks in the same general direction, many distinct paths offered themselves. It was here, O Piso, just as we reached the foot of this little hill, riding more slowly by reason of the winding road, that my quick ear caught at a distance the sounds of other hoofs upon the ground beside our own. My heart sank within me—a sudden faintness spread over my limbs. But at the instant I gave the alarm to our troop, and at greatest risk of life and limb we put our beasts to their extreme speed, and dashed toward the river. I still, as we rode, turning my ear in the direction of the sound, heard with distinctness the clatter of horses' hoofs. Our beasts were dromedaries; in that lay my hope. Two boats awaited us among the rushes on the river's bank, in the keeping of those who had been sent forward for that purpose; and off against them, upon the other side of the stream, lay a small Persian village and fortress. Once off in the boats but ever so short a distance, and we were safe. On we flew, and on I was each moment conscious came pursuers, whoever they might be. We reached the river's edge.—"Quick! for your lives," I cried. "The Queen, the Princess, and four men in this boat; the packages in the other." In a moment and less than that, we were in our boat, a troop of horse at the same instant sweeping like a blast of the desert down the bank of the river. We shot into the stream; but ere the other could gain the water, the Romans, as we now too plainly saw them to be, were upon them. A brief but desperate strife ensued. The Romans were five for one of the others, and quickly putting them to the sword, sprang into their boat.

'"Pull! pull!" cried the Queen, the first words she had uttered, "for your lives and Palmyra!" They gained upon us. We had six oars, they eight. But the strength of three seemed to nerve the arm of Calpurnius.

'"Immortal gods!" cried he, in inexpressible agony, "they near us!" and straining with redoubled energy his oar snapped, and the boat whirled from her course.

'"All is lost!" ejaculated Zenobia.

'A Roman voice was now heard, "Yield you, and your lives are safe."

'"Never," cried Calpurnius, and as the Roman boat struck against ours, he raised his broken oar, and aiming at him who had spoken, lost his balance and plunged headlong into the stream,

'"Save him—save him!" cried the Queen, but they heeded her not. "It is vain to contend," she cried out again; "we yield, but save the life of him who has fallen."

'The light was yet not sufficient to see but to a little distance. Nothing was visible upon the smooth surface of the water, nor any sound heard.

'"His own rash fury has destroyed him," said the Roman, who we now could discern bore the rank of Centurion.

'"We seek," said he, turning toward where the Queen sat, "we seek Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra."

'"I am Zenobia," said the Queen.

'"The gods be praised therefor!" rejoined the Centurion. "Our commands are to bear you to the tent of Aurelian."

'"Do with me as you list," replied the Queen; "I am in your power."

'"To the shore," exclaimed the Roman; and our boat, fastened to the other, was soon at the place whence but a moment before it had parted.

'"Who are these?" asked the Centurion, as we reached the shore, pointing to the Princess, and the attendant slave and secretary. "Our orders extend only to the person of the Queen."

'"Divide them not," I said, willing to spare the Queen the bandying of words with a Roman soldier, "they are of the Queen's family. They are a part of herself. If thou takest one take all to thy Emperor."

'"So be it; and now to your horses, and once more over the plain. It shall go hard, but that what we carry with us will make our fortune with Aurelian."

'Saying this, the whole troop formed, placing Zenobia and Julia in the midst, and winding up the banks of the river disappeared.

'Such, O unhappy Piso, was this disastrous night. Surely all was done on our part to secure a successful issue. I can discern no defect nor fault. We could not have been more fleet. Swifter beasts never trod the sands of Arabia. What then? Hath there not been, think you, foul play? Whence got the Romans knowledge, not only of our flight, but of the very spot for which we aimed? I doubt not there has been treachery—and that too of the very color of hell. Look to it, and let not the guilty go free.

'One word touching thy brother. Despond not. I cannot think that he is lost. We were but a furlong from the shore. My belief is, that seeing the capture of the Queen was certain, and that to him, if taken with her in arms against his country, death was inevitable, he, when he fell, rose again at a safe distance, and will yet be found.

'These things I send in haste by a returning servant of the palace, I remaining both to secure the dromedaries now wandering at will along the banks of the river, and to search diligently for Calpurnius, whom I trust to bear back with me to Palmyra.'

Here, my Curtius, was food for meditation and grief—the renowned Queen of this brilliant capital and kingdom, so late filling a throne that drew the admiration of the world, sitting there in a proud magnificence that cast into shade Persia itself, is in one short night shorn of all her power; a captive at the mercy of a cruel foe; Julia also a captive; my brother, so late redeemed—as I cannot but suppose—dead. I need not nor can I tell you with what emotions I read the fatal letter. The same messenger who delivered it to me had spread through the city the news of the Queen's captivity. What related to Calpurnius I determined to conceal from Fausta, since it was at least possible that by communicating it I might cause a useless suffering.

Fausta, upon learning the horrors of the night, which she first did from the outcries and lamentations in the streets, seemed more like one dead than alive. She could not weep; the evil was too great for tears. And there being no other way in which to give vent to the grief that wrung her soul in every feeling and affection, I trembled lest reason should be hurled from its seat. She wandered from room to room, her face of the hue of death—but indicating life enough in its intense expression of inward pain—and speechless, save that at intervals in a low tone, 'Zenobia! Palmyra!' fell from her scarcely moving lips. To Gracchus and myself essaying to divert her from thoughts that seemed to prey upon her very life, she said, 'Leave me to wrestle alone with my grief; it is the way to strength. I do not doubt that I shall find it.'

'She is right,' said Gracchus; 'to overcome she must fight her own battle. Our aid but ministers to her weakness.'

It was not long before she rejoined us, tears having brought relief to her over-burdened heart.

Her first inquiry now was for Calpurnius. 'I have feared to ask, for if he too is captive, I know that he is lost. Now I can hear and bear all. How is it, Lucius?'

I answered, that 'he was not a captive, so much was known; but where he now was, or what had befallen him, was not known. I had reason to believe that he would find his way back through the guidance of Isaac to the city.'

'Alas! I read in your words his fate. But I will not urge you farther. I will live upon all the hope I can keep alive. Yet it is not the death of Calpurnius—nor yet of Zenobia—nor Julia—that wrings the soul and saps its life, like this bitter, bitter disappointment, this base treason of Antiochus. To be so near the summit of our best hopes, only to be cast down into this deep abyss—that is the sting in our calamity that shoots deepest, and for which there is no cure. Is there no other way, father, in which we can explain the capture of the Queen? Accident—could it not be accident that threw the troop of Aurelian in their way?'

'I fear not,' said Gracchus. 'When we add what rumor has heretofore reported of the aims of Antiochus, but which we have all too much contemned him to believe him capable of, to what has now occurred, I think we cannot doubt that he is the author of the evil, seducing into his plot the Queen's slave, through whom he received intelligence of every plan and movement.'

'Ah, cruel treachery! How can one join together the sweet innocent face of Sindarina and such deep hypocrisy! Antiochus surely must have perverted her by magic arts. Of that I am sure. But what fruit can Antiochus hope his treason shall bear for him? Can he think that Palmyra will endure his rule?'

'That,' replied Gracchus, 'must be his hope. The party of the discontented we well know to be large; upon them he thinks he may rely. Then his treason recommending him to Aurelian, he builds upon his power to establish him on the throne, and sustain him there till his own strength shall have grown, so that he can stand alone. That the city will surrender upon the news of the Queen's captivity, he doubtless calculates upon as certain.'

'May his every hope,' cried Fausta, 'be blasted, and a little of the misery he has poured without stint into our hearts wring his own, and when he cries for mercy, may he find none!'

'One hope,' I said here, 'if I know aught of the nature of Aurelian, and upon which he must chiefly found his project, will sink under him to his shame and ruin.'

'What mean you?' said Fausta eagerly.

'His belief that Aurelian will reward baseness though to an enemy. He never did it yet, and he cannot do it. Were there within the thick skull of Antiochus the brains of a foolish ostrich, he would have read in the fate of Heraclammon, the rich traitor of Tyana, his own. If I err not, he has indiscreetly enough thrust himself into a lion's den. If Aurelian is fierce, his is the grand and terrific ferocity of the king of beasts.'

'May it be so!' said Fausta. 'There were no providence in the gods did such villany escape punishment, still less, did it grow great. But if Aurelian is such as you describe him, O then is there not reason in the belief that he will do gently by her? Were it compatible with greatness or generosity—and these, you say, belong to the Emperor—to take revenge upon an enemy, thrown by such means into his power? and such an enemy? and that too a woman? Julia too! O immortal gods, how bitter past drinking is this cup!'

'Yet must you, must we, not lean too confidently upon the dispositions of Aurelian. He is subject, though supreme, to the state, nay, and in some sense to the army; and what he might gladly do of his own free and generous nature, policy and the contrary wishes and sometimes requisitions of his troops, or of the people, compel him to forbear. The usage of Rome toward captive princes has been, and is, cruel. Yet the Emperor does much to modify it, giving it, according to his own temper, a more or less savage character. And Aurelian has displayed great independence in his acts, both of people and soldiers. There is much ground for hope—but it must not pass into confident expectation.'

'You, Lucius, in former days have known Aurelian well, before fortune raised him to this high eminence. You say you were his friend. Could you not—'

'No, I fear with scarce any hope of doing good. My residence here during all these troubles will, I doubt not, raise suspicions in the mind of Aurelian which it will not be easy to allay. But whenever I shall have it in my power to present myself before him, I shall not fail to press upon him arguments which, if he shall act freely, cannot I think but weigh with him.'

'Ought not the city now,' said Fausta, addressing Gracchus, 'to surrender, and, if it can do no better, throw itself upon the mercy of Aurelian? I see not now what can be gained by longer resistance, and would not a still protracted refusal to capitulate, and when it must be without the faintest expectation of ultimate success, tend merely and with certainty to exasperate Aurelian, and perhaps embitter him toward the Queen?'

'I can scarcely doubt that it would,' replied Gracchus. 'The city ought to surrender. Soon as the first flood of grief has spent itself, must we hasten to accomplish it if possible. Longinus, to whom will now be entrusted the chief power, will advocate it I am sure—so will Otho, Seleucus, Gabrayas; but the army will, I fear, be opposed to it, and will, more through a certain pride of their order than from any principle, incline to hold out.—It is time I sought Longinus.'

He departed in search of the Greek. I went forth into the streets to learn the opinions and observe the behavior of the people.

* * * * *

The shades of night are around me—the palace is still—the city sleeps. I resume my pen to add a few words to this epistle, already long, but they are words that convey so much that I cannot but add them for my own pleasure not less than yours. They are in brief these,—Calpurnius is alive and once again returned to us. The conjecture of Isaac was a description of the truth. My brother, knowing well that if apprehended his death were certain, had in the outset resolved, if attacked, rather to provoke his death, and insure it in the violence of a conflict, than be reserved for the axe of the Roman executioner. But in the short moment in which he fell headlong into the river, it flashed across his mind—'The darkness favors my escape—I can reach the shore;' so swimming a short distance below the surface, falling down with the stream and softly rising, concealed himself among the reeds upon the margin of the stream. Finding the field in a short time wholly in possession of Isaac, he revealed himself and joined him, returning to the city as soon as the darkness of the night permitted. Here is a little gleam of light breaking through Fausta's almost solid gloom. A smile has once more played over her features.

In the evening after Calpurnius's return, she tried her harp, but the sounds it gave out only seemed to increase her sorrow, and she threw it from her.

'Music,' said Gracchus, 'is in its nature melancholy, and how, my child, can you think to forget or stifle grief by waking the strings of your harp, whose tones, of all other instruments, are the most melancholy? And yet sometimes sadness seeks sadness, and finds in it its best relief. But now, Fausta? rather let sleep be your minister and nurse.'

So we parted. Farewell.



Letter XV.



It were a vain endeavor, my Curtius, to attempt to describe the fever of indignation, and rage, and grief, that burned in the bosoms of this unhappy people, as soon as it was known that their Queen was a captive in the hands of the Romans. Those imprisoned upon suspicion of having been concerned in her betrayal would have been torn from their confinement, and sacrificed to the wrath of the citizens, in the first hours of their excitement, but for the formidable guard by which the prisons were defended. The whole population seemed to be in the streets and public places, giving and receiving with eagerness such intelligence as could be obtained. Their affliction is such as it would be had each one lost a parent or a friend. The men rave, or sit, or wander about listless and sad; the women weep; children catch the infection, and lament as for the greatest misfortune that could have overtaken them. The soldiers, at first dumb with amazement at so unlooked-for and unaccountable a catastrophe, afterward, upon learning that it fell out through the treason of Antiochus, bound themselves by oaths never to acknowledge or submit to his authority, though Aurelian himself should impose him upon them, nay, to sacrifice him to the violated honor of the empire, if ever he should fall into their power.

Yet all are not such. The numbers are not contemptible of those who, openly or secretly, favor the cause and approve the act of Antiochus. He has not committed so great a crime without some prospect of advantage from it, nor without the assurance that a large party of the citizens, though not the largest, is with him, and will adhere to his fortunes. These are they, who think, and justly think, that the Queen has sacrificed the country to her insane ambition and pride. They cleave to Antiochus, not from personal regard toward him, but because he seems more available for their present purposes than any other, principally through his fool-hardy ambition; and, on the other hand, they abandon the Queen, not for want of personal affection, equal perhaps to what exists in any others, but because they conceive that the power of Rome is too mighty to contend with, and that their best interests rather than any extravagant notions of national honor, ought to prompt their measures.

The city will now give itself up, it is probable, upon the first summons of Aurelian. The council and the senate have determined that to hold out longer than a few days more is impossible. The provisions of the public granaries are exhausted, and the people are already beginning to be pinched with hunger. The rich, and all who have been enabled to subsist upon their own stores, are now engaged in distributing what remains among the poorer sort, who are now thrown upon their compassion. May it not be, that I am to be a witness of a people dying of hunger! Gracchus and Fausta are busily employed in relieving the wants of the suffering.

We have waited impatiently to hear the fate of the Queen. Many reports have prevailed, founded upon what has been observed from the walls. At one time, it has been said that she had perished under the hands of the executioner—at another, that the whole Roman camp had been seen to be thrown into wild tumult, and that she had doubtless fallen a sacrifice to the ungovernable fury of the licentious soldiery, I cannot think either report probable. Aurelian, if he revenged himself by her death, would reserve her for execution on the day of his triumph. But he would never tarnish his glory by such an act. And for the soldiers—I am sure of nothing more than that they are under too rigid a discipline, and hold Aurelian in too great terror, to dare to commit a violence like that which has been imputed to them.

At length—for hours are months in such suspense—we are relieved. Letters have come from Nichomachus to both Longinus and Livia,

First, their sum is, the Queen lives!

I shall give you what I gather from them.

'When we had parted,' writes the secretary, 'from the river's edge, we were led at a rapid pace over the same path we had just come, to the neighborhood of the Roman camp. I learned from what I overheard of the conversation of the Centurion with his companion at his side, that the flight of the Queen had been betrayed. But beyond that, nothing.

'We were taken not at once to the presence of Aurelian, but lodged in one of the abandoned palaces in the outskirts of the city—that of Seleucus, if I err not—where? the Queen being assigned the apartments needful for her and her effects, a guard was set around the building.

'Here we had remained not long, yet long enough for the Queen to exchange her disguise for her usual robes, when it was announced by the Centurion that we must proceed to the tent of the Emperor. The Queen and the Princess were placed in a close litter, and conveyed secretly there, out of fear of the soldiers, "who," said the Centurion, "if made aware of whom we carry, would in their rage tear to fragments and scatter to the winds both the litter and its burden."

'We were in this manner borne through the camp to the tent of Aurelian. As we entered, the Emperor stood at its upper end, surrounded by the chief persons of his army. He advanced to meet the Queen, and in his changing countenance and disturbed manner might it be plainly seen how even an Emperor, and he the Emperor of the world, felt the presence of a majesty such as Zenobia's. And never did our great mistress seem more a Queen than now—not through that commanding pride which, when upon her throne, has impressed all who have approached her with a feeling of inferiority, but through a certain dark and solemn grandeur that struck with awe, as of some superior being, those who looked upon her. There was no sign of grief upon her countenance, but many of a deep and rooted sadness, such as might never pass away. No one could behold her and not lament the fortune that had brought her to such a pass. Whoever had thought to enjoy the triumph of exulting over the royal captive, was rebuked by that air of calm dignity and profound melancholy, which even against the will, touched the hearts of all, and forced their homage.

'"It is a happy day for Rome," said Aurelian, approaching and saluting her, "that sees you, lately Queen of Palmyra and of the East, a captive in the tent of Aurelian."

'"And a dark one for my afflicted country," replied the Queen.

'"It might have been darker," rejoined the emperor, "had not the good providence of the gods delivered you into my hands."

'"The gods preside not over treachery. And it must have been by treason among those in whom I have placed my most familiar trust, that I am now where and what I am. I can but darkly surmise by whose baseness the act has been committed. It had been a nobler triumph to you, Roman, and a lighter fall to me, had the field of battle decided the fate of my kingdom, and led me a prisoner to your tent."

'"Doubtless it had been so," replied Aurelian; "yet was it for me to cast away what chance threw into my power? A war is now happily ended, which, had your boat reached the further bank of the Euphrates, might yet have raged—and but to the mutual harm of two great nations. Yet it was both a bold and sagacious device, and agrees well with what was done by you at Antioch, Emesa, and now in the defence of your city, A more determined, a better appointed, or more desperate foe, I have never yet contended with."

'"It were strange, indeed," replied the Queen, "if you met not with a determined foe, when life and liberty were to be defended. Had not treason, base and accursed treason, given me up like a chained slave to your power, yonder walls must have first been beaten piecemeal down by your engines, and buried me beneath their ruins, and famine clutched all whom the sword had spared, ere we had owned you master. What is life, when liberty and independence are gone?"

'"But why, let me ask," said Aurelian? "were you moved to assert an independency of Rome? How many peaceful and prosperous years have rolled on since Trajan and the Antonines, while you and Rome were at harmony; a part of us and yet independent; allies rather than a subject province; using our power for your defence; yet owning no allegiance. Why was this order disturbed? What madness ruled to turn you against the power of Rome?"

'"The same madness," replied Zenobia, "that tells Aurelian he may yet possess the whole world, and sends him here into the far East to wage needless war with a woman—Ambition! Yet had Aurelian always been upon the Roman throne, or one resembling him, it had perhaps been different. There then could have been naught but honor in any alliance that had bound together Rome and Palmyra. But was I, was the late renowned Odenatus, to confess allegiance to base souls such as Aureolus, Gallienus, Balista? While the thirty tyrants were fighting for the Roman crown, was I to sit still, waiting humbly to become the passive prey of whosoever might please to call me his? By the immortal gods, not so! I asserted my supremacy, and made it felt; and in times of tumult and confusion to Rome, while her Eastern provinces were one scene of discord and civil broil, I came in and reduced the jarring elements, and out of parts broken and sundered, and hostile, constructed a fair and well-proportioned whole. And when once created, and I had tasted the sweets of sovereign and despotic power—what they are thou knowest—was I tamely to yield the whole at the word or threat even of Aurelian? It could not be. So many years as had passed and seen me Queen, not of Palmyra only, but of the East—a sovereign honored and courted at Rome, feared by Persia, my alliance sought by all the neighboring dominions of Asia—had served but to foster in me that love of rule which descended to me from a long line of kings. Sprung from a royal line, and so long upon a throne, it was superior force alone—divine or human—that should drag me from my right. Thou hast been but four years king, Aurelian, monarch of the great Roman world, yet wouldst thou not, but with painful unwillingness, descend and mingle with the common herd. For me, ceasing to reign, I would cease to live."

'"Thy speech," said Aurelian, "shows thee well worthy to reign. It is no treason to Rome, Carus, to lament that the fates have cast down from a throne? one who filled its seat so well. Hadst thou hearkened to the message of Petronius, thou mightest still, lady, have sat upon thy native seat. The crown of Palmyra might still have girt thy brow."

'"But not of the East," rejoined the Queen.

'"Fight against ambition, Carus! thou seest how, by aiming at too much, it loses all. It is the bane of humanity. When I am dead, may ambition then die, nor rise again."

'"May it be so," replied his general; "it has greatly cursed the world. It were better perhaps that it died now."

'"It cannot," replied Aurelian; "its life is too strong. I lament too, great Queen, for so I may well call thee, that upon an ancient defender of our Roman honor, upon her who revenged Rome upon the insolent Persian, this heavy fate should fall. I would willingly have met for the first time in a different way the brave conqueror of Sapor, the avenger of the wrongs and insults of the virtuous Valerian. The debt of Rome to Zenobia is great, and shall yet, in some sort at least, be paid. Curses upon those who moved thee to this war. They have brought this calamity upon thee, Queen, not I, nor thou. What ill designing aspirants have urged thee on? This is not a woman's war."

'"Was not that a woman's war," replied the Queen, "that drove the Goths from upper Asia? Was not that a woman's war that hemmed Sapor in his capital, and seized his camp? and that which beat Heraclianus, and gained thereby Syria and Mesopotamia? and that which worsted Probus, and so won the crown of Egypt? Does it ask for more, to be beaten by Romans, than to conquer these? Rest assured, great prince, that the war was mine. My people were indeed with me, but it was I who roused, fired, and led them on. I had indeed great advisers. Their names are known throughout the world. Why should I name the renowned Longinus, the princely Gracchus, the invincible Zabdas, the honest Otho? Their names are honored in Rome as well as here. They have been with me; but without lying or vanity, I may say I have been their head."

'"Be it so; nevertheless, thy services shall be remembered. But let us now to the affairs before us. The city has not surrendered—though thy captivity is known, the gates still are shut. A word from thee would open them."

'"It is a word I cannot speak," replied the Queen; her countenance expressing now, instead of sorrow, indignation. "Wouldst thou that I too should turn traitor?"

'"It surely would not be that," replied the Emperor. "It can avail naught to contend further—it can but end in a wider destruction, both of your people and my soldiers."

'"Longinus, I may suppose," said Zenobia, "is now supreme. Let the Emperor address him, and what is right will be done."

'Aurelian turned, and held a brief conversation with some of his officers.

'"Within the walls," said the Emperor, again addressing the Queen, "thou hast sons. Is it not so?"

'"It is not they," said the Queen quickly, her countenance growing pale, "it is not they, nor either of them, who have conspired against me!"

'"No—not quite so. Yet he who betrayed thee calls himself of thy family. Thy sons surely were not in league with him. Soldiers," cried the Emperor, "lead forth the great Antiochus, and his slave."

'At his name, the Queen started—the Princess uttered a faint cry, and seemed as if she would have fallen.

'A fold of the tent was drawn aside, and the huge form of Antiochus appeared, followed by the Queen's slave, her head bent down and eyes cast upon the ground. If a look could have killed, the first glance of Zenobia, so full of a withering contempt, would have destroyed her base kinsman. He heeded it but so much as to blush and turn away his face from her. Upon Sindarina the Queen gazed with a look of deepest sorrow. The beautiful slave stood there where she entered, not lifting her head, but her bosom rising and falling with some great emotion—conscious, as it seemed, that the Queen's look was fastened upon her, and fearing to meet it. But it was so only for a moment, when raising her head, and revealing a countenance swollen with grief, she rushed toward the Queen, and threw herself at her feet, embracing them, and covering them with kisses. Her deep sobs took away all power of speech. The Queen only said, "My poor Sindarina!"

'The stern voice of Aurelian was first heard, "Bear her away—bear her from the tent."

'A guard seized her, and forcibly separating her from Zenobia, bore her weeping away.

'"This," said Aurelian, turning now to Zenobia, "this is thy kinsman, as he tells me—the Prince Antiochus?"

'The Queen replied not.

'"He has done Rome a great service." Antiochus raised his head, and straightened his stooping shoulders, "He has the merit of ending a weary and disastrous war. It is a rare fortune to fall to any one. 'Tis a work to grow great upon. Yet, Prince," turning to Antiochus, "the work is not complete. The city yet holds out. If I am to reward thee with the sovereign power, as thou sayest, thou must open the gates. Canst thou do it?"

'"Great Prince," replied the base spirit eagerly, "it is provided for. Allow me but a few moments, and a place proper for it, and the gates I warrant shall quickly swing upon their hinges."

'"Ah! do you say so? That is well. What, I pray, is the process?"

'"At a signal which I shall make, noble Prince, and which has been agreed upon, every head of every one of the Queen's party rolls in the dust—Longinus, Gracchus, and his daughter, Seleucus, Gabrayas, and a host more—their heads fall. The gates are then to be thrown open."

'"Noble Palmyrene, you have the thanks of all. Of the city then we are at length secure. For this, thou wouldst have the rule of it under Rome, wielding a sceptre in the name of the Roman Senate, and paying tribute as a subject province? Is it not so?"

'"It is. That is what I would have, and would do, most excellent Aurelian."

'"Who are thy associates in this? Are the Queen's sons, Herennianus, Timolaus, Vabalathus, of thy side, and partners in this enterprise?"

'"They are not privy to the design to deliver up to thy great power the Queen their mother; but they are my friends, and most surely do I count upon their support. As I shall return king of Palmyra, they will gladly share my power."

'"But if friends of thine, they are enemies of mine," rejoined Aurelian, in terrific tones; "they are seeds of future trouble; they may sprout up into kings also, to Rome's annoyance. They must be crushed. Dost thou understand me?"

'"I do, great Prince. Leave them to me. I will do for them. But to say the truth they are too weak to disturb any—friends or enemies."

'"Escape not so. They must die." roared Aurelian.

'"They shall—they shall," ejaculated the alarmed Antiochus; "soon as I am within the walls their heads shall be sent to thee."

'"That now is as I would have it. One thing more thou hast asked—that the fair slave who accompanies thee be spared to thee, to be thy Queen."

'"It was her desire—hers, noble Aurelian, not mine."

'"But didst thou not engage to her as much?"

'"Truly I did. But among princes such words are but politic ones: that is well understood. Kings marry for the state. I would be higher matched;" and the sensual demon cast his eyes significantly towards the Princess Julia.

'"Am I understood?" continued Antiochus, Aurelian making no response. "The Princess Julia I would raise to the throne." The monster seemed to dilate to twice his common size, as his mind fed upon the opening glories.

'Aurelian had turned from him, looking first at his Roman attendants, then at the Queen and Julia—his countenance kindling with some swelling passion.

'"Do I understand thee?" he then said. "I understand thee to say that for the bestowment of the favors and honors thou hast named, thou wilt do the things thou hast now specifically promised? Is it not so?"