Unable, from the steadiness of her demeanour, so much even as to conjecture what were her present feelings, yet much dispirited at finding his mistake, the young man proceeded with his narrative. Gaining courage, however, as he continued speaking, the princ.i.p.al difficulties of his story being past, he warmed and spoke more feelingly, more eloquently, with every word he uttered.

He told her of the deep depression, which had fallen on him the following morning, when her letter had called him to the house of Hortensia. He again related the attack made on him by Catiline, on the same evening, in Egeria's grotto; and spoke of the absolute despair, in which he was plunged, seeing the better course, yet unable to pursue it; aiming at virtue, yet forced by his fatal oath to follow vice; marking clearly before him the beacon light of happiness and honour, yet driven irresistibly into the gulf of misery, crime, and destruction. He told her of Lucia's visit to his house; how she released him from his fatal oath!

disclaimed all right to his affection, nay! to his respect, even, and esteem! encouraged him to hold honour in his eye, and in the scorn of consequence to follow virtue for its own sake! He told her, too, of the conspiracy, in all its terrible details of atrocity and guilt-that dark and hideous scheme of treason, cruelty, l.u.s.t, horror, from which he had himself escaped so narrowly.

Then, with a glow of conscious rect.i.tude, he proved to her that he had indeed repented; that he was now, howsoever he might have been deceived into error and to the brink of crime, firm, and resolved; a champion of the right; a defender of his country; trusted and chosen by the Great Consul; and, in proof of that trust, commissioned by him now to lead his troop of hors.e.m.e.n to Praeneste, a strong fortress, near at hand, which there was reason to expect might be a.s.sailed by the conspirators.

"And now, my tale is ended," he said. "I did hope there would have been no need to reveal these things to you; but from the first, I have been resolved, if need were, to open to you my whole heart-to show you its dark spots, as its bright ones. I have sinned, Julia, deeply, against you! Your purity, your love, should have guarded me! Yet, in a moment of treacherous self-confidence, my head grew dizzy, and I fell. But oh! believe me, Julia, my heart never once betrayed you! Now say-can you pardon me-trust me-love me-be mine, as you promised? If not-speed me on my way, and my first battle-field shall prove my truth to Rome and Julia."

"Oh! this is very sad, my Paullus," she replied; "very humiliating-very, very bitter. I had a trust so perfect in your love. I could as soon have believed the sunflower would forget to turn to the day-G.o.d, as that Paul would forget Julia. I had a confidence so high, so n.o.ble, in your proud, untouched virtue. And yet I find, that at the first alluring glance of a frail beauty, you fall off from your truth to me-at the first whispering temptation of a demon, you half fall off from patriotism-honour-virtue!

Forgive you, Paullus! I can forgive you readily. For well, alas! I know that the best of us all are very frail, and p.r.o.ne to evil. Love you? alas!

for me, I do as much as ever-but say, yourself, how can I trust you? how can I be yours? when the next moment you may fall again into temptation, again yield to it. And then, what would then remain to the wretched Julia, but a most miserable life, and an untimely grave?"

The proud man bowed his head in bitter anguish; he buried his face in his hands; he gasped, and almost groaned aloud, in his great agony. His heart confessed the truth of all her words, and it was long ere he could answer her. Perhaps he would not have collected courage to do so at all, but would have risen in his agony of pride and despair, and gone his way to die, heart-broken, hopeless, a lost man.

But she-for her heart yearned to her lover-arose and crossed the room with noiseless step to the spot where he sat, and laid her fair hand gently on his shoulder, and whispered in her voice of silvery music,

"Tell me, Paullus, how can I trust you?"

"Because I have told you all this, truly! Think you I had humbled myself thus, had I not been firm to resist? think you I have had no temptation to deceive you, to keep back a part, to palliate? and lo! I have told you all-the shameful, naked truth! How can I ever be so bribed again to falsehood, as I have been in this last hour, by hope of winning, and by dread of losing you, my soul's idol? Because I have been true, now to the last, I think that you may trust me."

"Are you sure, Paullus?" she said, with a soft sad smile, yet suffering him to retain the little hand he had imprisoned while he was speaking-"very, very sure?"

"Will you believe me, Julia?"

"Will you be true hereafter, Paullus?"

"By all-"

"Nay! swear not by the G.o.ds," she interrupted him; "they say the G.o.ds laugh at the perjury of lovers! But oh! remember, Paullus, that if you were indeed untrue to Julia, she could but die!"

He caught her to his heart, and she for once resisted not; and, for the first time permitted, his lips were pressed to hers in a long, chaste, holy kiss.

"And now," he said, "my own, own Julia, I must say fare you well. My horse awaits me at your door-my troopers are half the way hence to Praeneste."

"Nay!" she replied, blushing deeply, "but you will surely see Hortensia, ere you go."

"It must be, then, but for a moment," he answered. "For duty calls me; and _you_ must not tempt me to break my new-born resolution. But say, Julia, will you tell all these things to Hortensia?"

She smiled, and laid her hand upon his mouth; but he kissed it, and drew it down by gentle force, and repeated his question,

"Will you?"

"Not a word of it, Paul. Do you think me so foolish?"

"Then I will-one day, but not now. Meanwhile, let us go seek for her."

And, pa.s.sing his arm around her slender waist, he led her gently from the scene of so many doubts and fears, of so much happiness.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE SENATE.

Most potent, grave, and reverend Seniors.

OTh.e.l.lO.

The second morning had arrived, after that regularly appointed for the Consular elections.

No tumult had occurred, nor any overt act to justify the apprehensions of the people; yet had those apprehensions in no wise abated. The very indistinctness of the rumored terror perhaps increased its weight; and so wide-spread was the vague alarm, so prevalent the dread and excitement, that in the haggard eyes and pale faces of the frustrated conspirators, there was little, if anything, to call attention; for whose features wore their natural expression, during those fearful days, each moment of which might bring forth ma.s.sacre and conflagration? Whose, but the great Consul's?

The second morning had arrived; and the broad orb of the newly risen sun, lurid and larger than his wont, as it struggled through the misty haze of the Italian autumn, had scarcely gained sufficient alt.i.tude to throw its beams over the woody crest of the Esquiline into the hollow of the Sacred Way.

The slant light fell, however, full on the splendid terraces and shrines of the many-templed Palatine, playing upon their stately porticoes, and tipping their rich capitals with golden l.u.s.tre.

And at that early hour, the ancient hill was thronged with busy mult.i.tudes.

The crisis was at hand-the Senate was in solemn session. The knights were gathered in their force, all armed. The younger members of the patrician houses were mustered with their clients. The fasces of the lictors displayed the broad heads of the axes glittering above the rods, which bound them-the axes, never borne in time of peace, or within the city walls, save upon strange emergency.

In the old temple of Jupiter Stator, chosen on this occasion for the strength of its position, standing on the very brink of the steep declivity of the hill where it overlooked the great Roman forum, that grand a.s.sembly sate in grave deliberation.

The scene was worthy of the actors, as were the actors of the strange tragedy in process.

It was the cella, or great circular s.p.a.ce of the inner temple. The brazen doors of this huge hall, facing the west, as was usual in all Roman temples, were thrown open; and without these, on the portico, yet so placed that they could hear every word that pa.s.sed within the building, sat on their benches, five on each side of the door, the ten tribunes(19) of the people.

Within the great s.p.a.ce, surrounded by a double peristyle of tall Tuscan columns, and roofed by a vast dome, richly carved and gilded, but with a circular opening at the summit, through which a flood of light streamed down on the a.s.sembled magnates, the Senate was in session.

Immediately facing the doors stood the old Statue of the G.o.d, as old, it was believed by some, as the days of Romulus, with the high altar at its base, hung round with votive wreaths, and glittering with ornaments of gold.

Around this altar were grouped the augurs, each clad, as was usual on occasions of high solemnity, in his _trabea_, or robe of horizontal stripes, in white and purple; each holding in his hand his _lituus_, a crooked staff whereby to designate the temples of the heaven, in which to observe the omens.

On every side of the circ.u.mference, except that occupied by the altar and the idol, were ranged in circular state the benches of the order.

Immediately to the right of the altar, were placed the curule chairs, rich with carved ivory and crimson cushions, of the two consuls; and behind them, erect, with their shouldered axes, stood the stout lictors.

Cicero, as the first chosen of the consuls, sat next the statue of the G.o.d; calm in his outward mien, as the severe and placid features of the marble deity, although within him the soul labored mightily, big with the fate of Rome. Next him Antonius, a stout, bold, sensual-looking soldier, filled his place-worthily, indeed, so far as stature, mien, and bearing were concerned; but with a singular expression in his eye, which seemed to indicate embarra.s.sment, perhaps apprehension.

After these, the presiding officers of the Republic, were present, each according to his rank, the conscript fathers-first, the Prince of the Senate, and then the Consulars, Censorians, and Praetorians, down to those who had filled the lowest office of the state, that of Quaestor, which gave its occupant, after his term of occupancy expired, admission to the grand representative a.s.sembly of the commonwealth.

For much as there has been written on all sides of this subject, there now remains no doubt that, from the earliest to the latest age of Rome, the Senate was strictly, although an aristocratical, still an elective representative a.s.sembly.

The Censors, themselves, elected by the Patricians out of their own order, in the a.s.sembly of the Curiae, had the appointment of the Senators; but from those only who had filled one of the magistracies, all of which were conferred by the popular vote of the a.s.sembly of the centuries; and all of which, at this period of the Republic, might be, and sometimes were, conferred on Plebeians-as in the case of Marius, six times elected Consul in spite of Patrician opposition.

Such was the const.i.tution of the Senate, purely elective, though like all other portions of the Roman const.i.tution, under such checks and balances as were deemed sufficient to ensure it from becoming a democratical a.s.sembly.