University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE TRUE LOVE.

Julius Cæsar.

The sun rose clear and bright on the following morning;
the air was fresh and exhilarating, and full of mirthful
inspiration. But Paullus Arvina rose unrefreshed and languid,
with his mind ill at ease; for the reaction which succeeds
ever to the reign of any vehement excitement, had
fallen on him with its depressing weight; and not that
only, but keen remorse for the past, and, if possible, anxiety
yet keener for the future.

Disastrous dreams had beset his sleeping hours; and, at
his waking, they and the true occurrences of the past day,
seemed all blended and confused into one horrible and
hideous vision.

Now he envisaged the whole dark reality of his past
conduct, of his present situation. Lucia, the charming
siren of the previous evening, appeared in her real colors,
as the immodest, passionate wanton; Catiline as the monster
that indeed he was!

And yet, alas! alas! as the clear perception of the
truth dawned on him, it was but coupled with a despairing
sense, that to these he was linked inevitably and forever.

The oath! the awful oath which he had sworn in the
fierce whirl of passion, registered by the arch-traitor—the

oath involving, not alone, his own temporal and eternal
welfare, but that of all whom he loved or cherished; his
own pure, beautiful, inimitable Julia, to whom his heart
now reverted with a far deeper and more earnest tenderness,
after its brief inconstancy; as he compared her strong,
yet maidenly and gentle love, with the wild and ungovernable
passions of the wanton, for whom he had once sacrificed
her.

Paullus Arvina was not naturally, not radically evil.
Far from it, his impulses were naturally virtuous and correct,
his calm sober thoughts always honorable and upright;
but his passions were violent and unregulated; his
principles of conduct not definitively formed; and his mind
wavering, unsettled, and unsteady.

His passions on the previous day had betrayed him
fatally, through the dark machinations of the conspirator,
and the strange fascinations of his lovely daughter, into
the perpetration of a great crime. He had bound himself,
by an oath too dreadful to be thought of without
shuddering, to the commission of yet darker crimes in
future.

And now the mists of passion had ceased to bedim
his mental vision, his eyes were opened, that he saw and
repented most sincerely the past guilt. How was he to
avoid the future?

To no man in these days, could there be a doubt even for
a moment—however great the sin of swearing such an
oath! No one in these days, knowing and repenting of the
crime, would hesitate a moment, or fancy himself bound,
because he had committed one vile sin in pledging himself
thus to guilt, to rush on deeper yet into the perpetration
of wickedness.

The sin were in the swearing, not in the breaking of an
oath so vile and shameful.

But those were days of dark heathenish superstition, and
it was far beyond the reach of any intellect perhaps of that
day to arrive at a conclusion, simple as that to which any
mind would now leap, as it were instinctively.

In those days, an omitted rite, an error in the ceremonial
tribute paid to the marble idol, was held a deeper sin than
adultery, incest, or blood shedding. And the bare thought
of the vengeance due for a broken oath would often times

keep sleepless, with mere dread, the eyes of men who could
have slumbered calmly on the commission of the deadliest
crimes.

Such, then, was the state of Arvina's mind on that morning—grieving
with deep remorse for the faults of which he
confessed himself guilty; trembling at the idea of rushing
into yet more desperate guilt; and at the same time feeling
bound to do so, in despite of his better thoughts, by the
fatal oath which bound him to the arch traitor.

While he was sitting in his lonely chamber, with his untested
meal of ripe figs, and delicate white bread, and milk
and honeycomb before him, devouring his own heart in his
fiery anguish, and striving with all his energies of intellect
to devise some scheme by which he might escape the perils
that seemed to hem him round on every side, his faithful
freedman entered, bearing a little billet, on which his
eye had scarcely fallen before he recognized the shapely
characters of Julia's well-known writing.

He broke the seal which connected the flaxen band, and
with a trembling eye, and a soul that feared it knew not
what, from the very consciousness of guilt, he read as follows:

“A day has passed, my Paullus, and we have not met!
The first day in which we have not met and conversed together,
since that whereon you asked me to be yours! I
would not willingly, my Paul, be as those miserable and
most foolish girls, of whom my mother has informed me,
who, given up to jealousy and doubt, torment themselves
in vain, and alienate the noble spirits, which are bound to
them by claims of affection only, not of compulsion or restraint.
Nor am I so unreasonable as to think, that a man
has no duties to perform, other than to attend a woman's
leisure. The Gods forbid it! for whom I love, I would
see great, and famous, and esteemed in the world's eyes
as highly as in mine! The house, it is true, is our sphere
—the Forum and the Campus, the great world with its toils,
its strifes, and its honors, yours! All this I speak to myself
often. I repeated it many, many times yesterday—it
ought to have satisfied me—it did satisfy my reason, Paul,
but it spoke not to my heart! That whispers ever, `he
came not yesterday to see me! he promised, yet he came
not!' and it will not be answered. Are you sick, Paullus,

that you came not? Surely in that case you had sent for
me. Hortensia would have gone with me to visit you.
No! you are not sick, else most surely I had known it!
Are you then angry with me, or offended? Unconscious
am I, dearest, of any fault against you in word, thought, or
deed. Yet will I humble myself, if you are indeed wroth
with me. Have I appeared indifferent or cold? oh! Paul,
believe it not. If I have not expressed the whole of my
deep tenderness which is poured out all, all on thee alone
—my yearning and continued love, that counts the minutes
when thou art not near me; it is not that I cease ever to
think of thee, to adore thee, but that it were unmaidenly
and overbold to tell thee of it. See, now, if I have not
done so here; and my hand trembles, and my cheek burns,
and almost I expect to see the pallid paper blush, to find itself
the bearer of words so passionate as these. But you
will pardon me, and come to me forthwith, and tell me, if
anything, in what I have displeased thee.

“It is a lovely morning, and Hortensia has just learned
from Caius Bibulus, that at high noon the ambassadors of
the wild Allobroges will march in with their escort over
the Mulvian Bridge. She wishes much to see the pomp,
for we are told that their stature is gigantic and their presence
noble, and their garb very wild, yet magnificent withal
and martial. Shall we go forth and see them? Hortensia
will carry me in her carpentum, and you can either ride
with us on horseback, or if you be not over proud take
our reins yourself as charioteer, or, what will perhaps be
the best of all, come in your own car and escort us. I
need not say that I wish to see you now, for that I wish
always. Come, then, and quickly, if you would pleasure
your own Julia.”

“Sweet girl,” he exclaimed, as he finished reading it,
“pure as the snow upon Soracte, yet warm and tender as
the dove. Inimitable Julia! And I—I—Oh, ye gods! ye
gods! that beheld it!” and he smote his brow heavily with
his hand, and bit his lip, till the blood almost sprang beneath
the pressure of his teeth; but recovering himself in
a moment, he turned to Thrasea—“Who brought this billet?
doth he wait?”

“Phædon, Hortensia's Greek boy, brought it, noble Paullus.
He waits for your answer in the atrium.”

“Quick, then, quick, Thrasea, give me a reed and paper.”

And snatching the materials he wrote hastily:

“Chance only, evil chance, most lovely Julia, and business
of some weight, restrained me from you most unwilling
yesterday. More I shall tell you when we meet—indeed
all! for what can I wish to conceal from you, the better
portion of my soul. Need I say that I come—not, alas,
on the wings of my love, or I should be beside you as I
write, but as quickly as the speed of horses may whirl me
to your presence; until then, fare you well, and confide in
the fidelity of Paullus.”

“Give it to Phædon,” he said, tossing the note to Thrasea,
“and say to him, `if he make not the better haste, I shall
be at Hortensia's house before him.' And then, hark ye,
tell some of those knaves in the hall without, to make ready
with all speed my light chariot, and yoke the two black
horses Aufidus and Acheron. With all speed, mark ye! And
then return, good Thrasea, for I have much to say to you,
before I go.”

When he was left alone, he arose from his seat, walked
three or four times to and fro his chamber, in anxious and
uneasy thought; and then saying, “Yes! yes! I will not
betray him, but I will take no step in the business any farther,
and I will tell him so to-night. I will tell him, moreover,
that Cicero has the dagger, for now that Volero is
slain, I see not well how it can be identified. The Gods
defend me from the dark ones whom I have invoked. I
will not be untrue to Rome, nor to Julia, any more—perish
the whole earth, rather! Ay! and let us, too, perish innocent,
better than to live guilty!”

As he made up his mind, by a great effort, to the better
course, the freedman returned, and announcing that the
car would be ready forthwith, inquired what dress he should
bring him.

Never mind that! What I have on will do well enough,
with a petasus;[1] for the sun shines so brightly that it will
be scarce possible to drive bare headed. But I have work

for you of more importance. You know the cave of Egeria,
as men call it, in the valley of the Muses?”

“Surely, my Paullus.”

“I know, I know; but have you ever marked the ground
especially around the cave—what opportunities there be
for concealment, or the like?”

“Not carefully,” he answered, “but I have noticed that
there is a little gorge just beyond the grotto, broken with
crags and blocks of tufo, and overgrown with much brush-wood,
and many junipers and ivy.”

“That will do then, I warrant me,” replied Arvina,
“Now mark what I tell you, Thrasea; for it may be, that
my life shall depend on your acting as I direct. At the
fourth hour of the night, I am to meet one in the grotto,
on very secret business, whom I mistrust somewhat; who
it is, I may not inform you; but, as I think my plans will
not well suit his councils, I should not be astonished were
he to have slaves, or even gladiators, with him to attack
me—but not dreaming that I suspect anything, he will not
take many. Now I would have you arm all my freedmen,
and some half dozen of the trustiest slaves, so as to have in
all a dozen or fifteen, with corslets under their tunics, and
boarspears, and swords. You must be careful that you are
not seen going thither, and you were best send them out
by different roads, so as to meet after nightfall. Hide yourselves
closely somewhere, not far from the cavern's mouth,
whence you may see, unseen yourselves, whatever passes.
I will carry my light hunting horn; and if you hear its blast
rush down and surround the cave, but hurt no man, nor
strike a blow save in self-defence, until I bid you. Do you
comprehend me?”

“I comprehend, and will obey you to the letter, Paullus,”
answered the grave freedman, “but will not you be
armed?”

“I will, my Thrasea. Leave thou a leathern hunting
helmet here on the table, and light scaled cuirass, which I
will do on under my toga. I shall be there at the fourth
hour precisely; but it were well that ye should be on your
posts by the second hour or soon after. For it may be, he
too will lay an ambuscade, and so all may be discovered.

“It shall be done, most noble master.”

“And see that ye take none but trustworthy men, and
that ye all are silent—to would be ruin.”

“As silent as the grave, my Paullus,” exclaimed
a slave, entering hastily.

“Who goes with me to hold the reins?” asked his master.

“The boy Myron.”

“It is well. Fetch me a petasus, and lay the toga in the
chariot. I may want it. Now, Thrasea, I rely on you!
Remember—be prudent, sure, and silent.”

“Else may I perish ill,” replied the faithful servitor, as
his master, throwing the broad brimmed hat carelessly on
his curly locks, rushed out, as if glad to seek relief from his
own gloomy thoughts in the excitement of rapid motion;
and, scarcely pausing to observe the condition or appearance
of his beautiful black coursers, sprang into the low
car of bronze, shaped not much differently from an old
fashioned arm chair with its back to the horses; seized the
reins, and drove rapidly away, standing erect—for the car
contained no seats—with the boy Myron clinging to the rail
behind him.

A few minutes brought him through the Cyprian lane
and the Suburra to the Virbian slope, by which he gained
the Viminal hill, and the Hortensian villa; at the door of
which, in a handsome street leading through the Quirinal
gate to the Flaminian way, or great northern road of Italy,
stood the carpentum, drawn by a pair of noble mules,
awaiting its fair freight.

This was a two-wheeled covered vehicle, set apart
mostly for the use of ladies; and, though without springs,
was as comfortable and luxurious a carriage as the art of
that day could produce; nor was there one in Rome, with
the exception of those kept for public use in the sacred
processions, that could excel that of the rich and elegant
Hortensia.

The pannels were beautifully painted, and the arched
top or tilt supported by gilded caryatides at the four corners.
Its curtains and cushions were of fine purple cloth;
and altogether, though far less convenient, it was a much

gayer and more sumptuous looking vehicle than the perfection
of modern coach building.

The ladies were both waiting in the atrium, when the
young man dismounted from his car; and never had his Julia,
he thought, looked more lovely than she did this morning,
with the redundant masses of her rich hair confined
by a net of green and gold, and a rich pallium, or shawl
of the same colors, gracefully draped over her snowy stola,
and indicating by the soft sweep of its outlines the beauties
of a figure, which it might veil but could not conceal.

Joyously, in the frank openness of her pure nature, she
sprung forward to meet him, with both her fair hands extended,
and the ingenuous blood rising faintly to her pale
cheeks.

“Dear, dearest Paul—I am so happy, so rejoiced to see
you.”

Nothing could be more tender, more affectionate, than
all her air, her words, her manner. Love flashed from
her bright eyes irrepressible, played in the dimples of her
smiling mouth, breathed audible in every tone of her soft
silvery voice. Yet was there nothing that the gravest and
most rigid censor could have wished otherwise—nothing
that he could have pronounced, even for a moment, too
warm, or too free for the bearing of the chariest maiden.

The very artlessness of her emotions bore evidence to
their purity, their holiness. She was rejoiced to see her
permitted lover, she felt no shame in that emotion of chaste
joy, and would no more have dreamed of concealing it
from him whom she loved so devotedly, than of masking
her devotion to the Gods under a veil of indifference or
coldness.

Here was the very charm of her demeanor, as here was
the difference between her manner, and that of her rival
Lucia.

In Julia, every thought that sprang from her heart, was
uttered by her lips in frank and fearless innocence; she
had no thought she was ashamed of, no wish she feared to
utter. Her clear bright eyes dwelt unabashed and fondly
on the face of him she loved; and no scrutiny could have
detected in their light, one glance of unquiet or immodest
passion. Her manner was warm and unreserved toward
Paul, because she had a right to love him, and cared not

who knew that she did so. Lucia's was as cold as snow,
on the contrary; yet it required no second glance to perceive
that the coldness was but the cover superinduced to
hide passions too warm for revelation. Her eye was
downcast; yet did its stolen glances speak things, the secret
consciousness of which would have debased the other in
her own estimation beyond the hope of pardon. Her
tongue was guarded, and her words slow and carefully
selected, for her imaginations would have made the brazen
face of the world blush for shame could it have heard them
spoken.

Hortensia smiled to witness the manifest affection of her
sweet child; but the smile was, she knew not why, half
mournful, as she said—

“You are unwise, my Julia, to show this truant how
much you prize his coming; how painfully his absence depresses
you. Sages declare that women should not let
their lords guess, even, how much they are loved.”

“Why, mother,” replied Julia, her bright face gleaming
radiantly with the pure lustre of her artless spirit, “I am
glad to see him; I do prize his coming; I do love Paullus.
Why, then, should I dissemble, when to do so were dishonest,
and were folly likewise?”

“You should not tell him so, my child,” replied the
mother, “I fear you should not tell him so. Men are not
like us women, who love but the more devotedly, the more
fondly we are cherished. There is, I fear, something of
the hunter's, of the conqueror's, ardour, in their passion;
the pursuit is the great allurement; the winning the great
rapture; and the prize, once securely won, too often cast
aside, and disregarded.”

“No! no!” returned the girl eagerly, fixing her eyes on
her lover's features, as if she would read therein the outward
evidences of that nobility of soul, which she believed
to exist within. “I will not believe it; it were against
all gratitude! all honor! all heart-turth! No, I will not
believe it; and if I did, Hortensia, by all the Gods, I had
rather live without love, than hold it on so vile a tenure of
deceit. What, treasure up the secrets of your soul from
your soul's lord? No! no! I would as soon conceal my
devotion from the powers of heaven, as my affections from
their rightful master. I, for one, never will believe that
all men are selfish and unfaithful.”

“May the Gods grant, my Julia, that sad experience
shall never teach you that they they are so. I, at least,
will believe, and pray, that, what his sex may be soever,
our Paullus will prove worthy ever of that best gift of God,
a pure woman's pure and unselfish love.”

“Oh! may it be so,” answered Paullus, clasping his
hands fervently together. “May I die ere I wrong my
Julia! and be you sure, sweet girl, that your simple trust
is philosophy far truer than the sage's lore. Base must
his nature be, and his heart corrupt, who remains unsubdued
to artlessness and love, such as yours, my Julia.”

“But tell us, now,” said the elder lady, “what was it
that detained you, and where were you all the day? We
expected you till the seventh hour of the night, yet you
came not.”

“I will tell you, Hortensia,” he replied, “as we drive
along; for I had rather do so, where there be no ears to
overhear us. You must let me be your charioteer to-day,
and your venerable grey-headed coachman shall ride with
my wild imp Myron, in the car, if you will permit it.”

“Willingly,” she replied. “Then something strange
has happened. Is it not so?”

“I knew it,” exclaimed Julia, clasping her snowy hands
together, “I knew it; I have read it in his eye this half
hour. What can it be? it is something fearful, I am certain.”

“Nay! nay! be not alarmed; if there were danger, it
is passed already. But come, let me assist you to the carriage;
I will tell you all as we go. But if we do not make
good speed, the pomp will have passed the bridge before
we reach it.”

The ladies made no more delay, but took their places in
the carriage, Paul occupying the front seat, and guiding
the sober mules with far more ease, than Hortensia's aged
charioteer experienced in restraining the speed of Arvina's
fiery coursers, and keeping them in their place, behind
the heavier carpentum.

The narrow streets were now passed, and threading the
deep arch of the Quirinal gate, they struck into a lane
skirting the base of the hill of gardens, on the right hand,
by which they gained the great Flaminian way, just on the
farther confines of the Campus; when they drove rapidly

toward the Milvian bridge, built a few years before by
æmilius Scaurus, and esteemed for many a year the
masterpiece of Roman architecture.

As soon as they had cleared the confines of the busy city,
within which the throng of vehicles, and the passengers, as
well on foot as on horseback, compelled Arvina to give
nearly the whole of his attention to the guidance of the
mules—he slackened the reins, and leaving the docile and
well-broken animals to choose their own way, giving only
an occasional glance to their movements, commenced
the detail of his adventures at the point, where he parted
from them on the night before the last.

Many were the emotions of fear, and pity, and anxiety
which that tale called forth; and more than once the tears
of Julia were evoked by sympathy, first, with her lover's
daring, then with the grief of Thrasea. But not a shade of
distrust came to cloud her pure spirit, for Paullus mentioned
nothing of his interview with Catiline on the Cælian, or in
the Campus; much less of his dining with him, or detecting
in him the murderer of the hapless Volero.

Still he did not attempt to conceal, that both Cicero and
himself had suspicions of the identity of the double murderer,
or that he was about to go forth that very evening,
for the purpose of attempting—as he represented it—to
ascertain, beyond doubt, the truth of his suspicions.

And here it was singular, that Julia evinced not so much
alarm or perturbation as her mother; whether it was that
she underrated the danger he was like to run, or overrated
the prowess and valor of her lover. But so it was, for
though she listened eagerly while he was speaking, and
gazed at him wistfully after he had become silent, she said
nothing. Her beautiful eyes, it is true, swam with big
tear-drops for a moment, and her nether lip quivered painfully;
but she mastered her feelings, and after a short space
began to talk joyously about such subjects as were suggested
by the pleasant scenery, through which their road
lay, or the various groups of people whom they met on the
way.

Ere long the shrill blast of a cavalry trumpet was heard
from the direction of the bridge, and a cloud of dust surging
up in the distance announced the approach of the
train.

There was a small green space by the wayside, covered
with short mossy turf, and overshadowed by the spreading
branches of a single chesnut, beneath which Paullus drew
up the mules of Hortensia's carriage, directing the old
charioteer, who seemed hard set to manage his high-bred
and fiery steeds, to wheel completely off the road, and hold
them well in hand on the green behind him.

By this time the procession had drawn nigh, and two
mounted troopers, glittering in casques of highly polished
bronze, with waving crests of horsehair, corslets of burnished
brass, and cassocks of bright scarlet cloth, dashed
by as hard as their fiery Gallic steeds could trot, their harness
clashing merrily from the rate at which they rode.
Before these men were out of sight, a troop of horse rode
past in serried order, five abreast, with a square crimson
banner, bearing in characters of gold the well-known
initials, S. P. Q. R., and surmounted by a gilded eagle.

Nothing could be more beautifully accurate than the ordered
march and exact discipline of this little band, their
horses stepping proudly out, as if by one common impulse,
in perfect time to the occasional notes of the lituus, or cavalry
trumpet, by which all their manœuvres were directed;
and the men, hardy and fine-looking figures, in the prime
of life, bestriding with an air of perfect mastery their fiery
chargers, and bearing the weight of their heavy panoply
beneath the burning sunshine of the Italian noon, as though
a march of thirty miles were the merest child's play.

About half a mile in the rear of this escort, so as to avoid
the dust which hung heavily, and was a long time subsiding
in the breathless atmosphere, came the train of the ambassadors
from the Gaulish Highlands, and on these men
were the eyes of the Roman ladies fixed with undisguised
wonder, not unmixed with admiration. For their giant stature,
strong limbs, and wild barbaric dresses, were as different
from those of the well-ordered legionaries, as were their
long light tresses, their blue eyes, keen and flashing as a falcon's,
and their fair ruddy skins, from the clear brown complexions,
dark locks, and black eyes of the Italian race.

The first of these wild people was a young warrior above
six feet in height, mounted on a superb grey charger, which
bore his massive bulk as if it were unconscious of his burthen.
His large blue eyes wandered around him on all

sides with a quick flashing glance that took in everything,
yet seemed surprised at nothing; though almost everything
which he beheld must have been strange to him. His long
red hair flowed down in wavy masses over his neck and
shoulders, and his upper lip, though his cheeks and his
chin were closely shaven, was clothed with an immense
moustache, the ends of which curled upward nearly to his
eyes.

Upon his head he wore a casque of bronze, covered with
studs of silver, and crested by two vast polished horns, the
spoil of the fiercest animal of Europe's forests—the gigantic
and indomitable Urus. A coat of mail, composed of bright
steel rings interwoven in the Gaulish fashion, covered his
body from the throat downward to the hips, leaving his
strong arms bare to the shoulder, though they were decorated
with so many chains, bracelets, and armlets, and
broad rings of gold and silver, as would have gone far to protect
them from a sword cut.

His legs were clothed, unlike those of any southern people,
in tightly-sitting pantaloons—braccæ, as they were
called—of gaily variegated tartans, precisely similar to the
trews of the Scottish Highlander—a much more ancient
part of the costume, by the way, than the kilt, or short petticoat,
now generally worn—and these trews, as well as the
streaming plaid, which he wore belted gracefully about his
shoulders, shone resplendent with checkers of the brightest
scarlet, azure, and emerald, and white, interspersed here
and there with lines and squares of darker colors, giving
relief and harmony to the general effect.

A belt of leather, studded with bosses and knobs of
coral and polished mountain pebbles, girded his waist, and
supported a large purse of some rich fur, with a formidable
dirk at the right side, and, at the left, suspended by gilt
chains from the girdle, a long, straight, cutting broadsword,
with a basket hilt—the genuine claymore, or great sword—
to resist the sweep of which Marcellus had been fain,
nearly five hundred years before, to double the strength of
the Roman casque, and to add a fresh layer of wrought
iron to the tough fabric of the Roman buckler.

This ponderous blade constituted, with the dagger, the
whole of his offensive armature; but there was slung on
his left shoulder a small round targe, of the hide of the

mountain bull, bound at the rim, and studded massively
with bronze, and having a steel pike projecting from the centre—in
all respects the same instrument as that with which
the clans received the British bayonet at Preston Pans and
Falkirk.

The charger of this gallantly-attired chief was bedecked,
like his rider, with all the martial trappings of the day; his
bridle, mounted with bits of ponderous Spanish fabric, was
covered with bosses gemmed with amber and unwrought
coral; his housings, of variegated plaid, were elaborately
fringed with embroideries of gold; and his rich scarlet
poitrel was decked, in the true taste of the western savage,
with tufts of human hair, every tuft indicating a warrior
slain, and a hostile head embalmed in the coffers of the
valiant rider.

“See, Julia, see,” whispered Arvina, as he passed slowly
by their chariot, “that must be one of their great chiefs,
and a man of extraordinary prowess. Look at the horns
of the mighty Urus on his helmet, a brute fiercer, and
well nigh as large as a Numidian elephant. He must
have slain it, single-handed in the forest, else had he
not presumed to wear its trophies, which belong only
to the greatest of their champions. For every stud of
silver on his casque of bronze he must have fought in a
pitched battle; and for each tuft of hair upon his charger's
poitrel he must have slain a foe in hand-to-hand encounter.
There are eighteen tufts on this side, and, I
warrant me, as many on the other. Doubtless, he has
already stricken down thirty-six foemen.'

“And he numbers not himself as yet so many years!
Ye Gods! what monsters,” exclaimed Julia, shuddering
at the idea of human hair used as a decoration. “Are
they not anthropophagi, the Gauls, my Paullus?”

“No, by the Gods! Julia,” answered Arvina, laughing;
“but very valiant warriors, and hospitable beyond measure
to those who visit their native mountains; admirers, too, of
women, whom they regard as almost divine, beyond all
things. I see that stout fellow looking wild admiration at
you now, from his clear blue eyes, though he would fain
be thought above the reach of wonder.”

“Are they believers in the Gods, or Atheists, as well as
barbarous?”

“By Jupiter! neither barbarous, to speak the truth, nor
Atheists; they worship Mercury and Jove, Mars and Apollo,
and Diana, as we do; and though their tongues be
something wild, and their usages seem strange to us, it
cannot be denied that they are a brave and noble race,
and at this time good friends to the Roman people. Mark
that old chieftain; he is the headman of the tribe, and leader
of the embassy, I doubt not.”

While he was speaking, a dozen other chiefs had ridden
by, accompanied by the chiefs of the Roman escort,
some men in the prime of life, some grizzled and weather-beaten,
and having the trace of many a hard-fought field in
the scars that defaced their sunburnt visages. But the last
was an old man, with long silver hair, and eyebrows and
mustachios white as the snow on his native Jura; the principal
personage evidently of the band, for his casque was
plated with gold, and his shirt of mail richly gilded, and
the very plaid which he wore, alternately checked with
scarlet, black, and gold.

He also, as he passed, turned his deep grey eye toward
the little group on the green, and his face lightened
up, as he surveyed the athletic form and vigorous proportions
of the young patrician, and he leaned toward the
officer, who rode beside him, a high crested tribune of the
tenth legion, and enquired his name audibly.

The soldier, who had been nodding drowsily over his
charger's neck, tired by the long and dusty ride, looked
up half bewildered, for he had taken no note of the spectators,
but as his eyes met those of Arvina, he smiled and
waved his hand, for they were old companions, and he
laughed as he gave the required information to the ancient
warrior.

The gaze of the old man fell next on the lovely lineaments
of Julia, and dwelt there so long that the girl lowered
her eyes abashed; but, when she again raised
them, supposing that he had passed by, she still met the
firm, penetrating, quiet gaze, rivetted on her face, for he
had turned half round in the saddle as he rode along.

A milder light came into his keen, hawk-like eye, and a
benignant smile illuminated his gray weather-beaten features,
as he surveyed and marked the ingenuous and artless
beauty of her whole form and face; and he whispered

into the tribune's ear something that made him too turn
back, and wave his hand to Paul, and laugh merrily.

“Now, drive us homeward, Paullus,” said Hortensia, as
the cohort of infantry which closed the procession, marched
steadily along, dusty and dark with sweat, yet proud in
their magnificent array, and solid in their iron discipline.
“Drive us homeward as quickly as you may. You will dine
with us, and if you must need go early to your meeting,
we will not hinder you.”

“Gladly will I dine with you; but I must say farewell
soon after the third hour!”

They soon arrived at the hospitable villa, and shortly
afterward the pleasant and social meal was served. But
Paul was not himself, though the lips he loved best poured
forth their fluent music in his ear, and the eyes which he
deemed the brightest, laughed on him in their speaking
fondness.

Still he was sad, silent, and abstracted, and Julia marked
it all; and when he rose to say farewell, just as the earliest
shades of night were falling, she arose too; and as she
accompanied him to the door, leaning familiarly on his arm,
she said—

“You have not told me all, Paullus. I thought so while
you were yet speaking; but now I am sure of it. I will
not vex you at this time with questions, but will devour
my anxiety and grief. But to-morrow, to-morrow, Paullus,
if you love me indeed, you will tell me all that disturbs
you. True love has no concealment from true love. Do
not, I pray you, answer me; but fare you well, and good
fortunes follow you.”