University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
THE WANTON.

En. V. 6. Virgil.

It was not till a late hour on the following day, that
Catiline awoke from the heavy and half lethargic slumber,
which had fallen upon him after the severe and stunning
blow he received in the grotto of Egeria.

His head ached fearfully, his tongue clove to his palate
parched with fever, and all his muscular frame was disjointed
and unstrung, so violently had his nerves been
shattered.

For some time after he awoke, he lay tossing to and
fro, on his painful couch, scarce conscious of his own identity,
and utterly forgetful of the occurrences of the past
evening.

By slow degrees, however, the truth began to dawn
upon him, misty at first and confused, until he brought to
his mind fairly the attack on Arvina, and the affray which
ensued; with something of an indistinct consciousness that
he had been stricken down, and frustrated in his murderous
attempt.

As soon as the certainty of this was impressed on him,
he sprang up from his bed, with his wonted impetuosity,
and inquired vehemently of a freedman, who sat in his
chamber motionless as a statue in expectation of his waking—

“How came I home, Chærea? and at what hour of
night?”

“Grievously wounded, Catiline; and supported in the
arms of the sturdy Germans, Geta and Arminius; and,
for the time, it was past the eighth hour.”

“The eighth hour! impossible!” cried the conspirator;
“why it was but the fifth, when that occurred. What
said I, my good Chærea? What said the Germans? Be
they here now? Answer me quick, I pray you.”

“There was but one word on your lips, Catiline; a constant
cry for water, water, so long as you were awake;
and after we had given you of it, as much as you would
take, and you had fallen into a disturbed and feverish
sleep, you still muttered in your dreams, `water!' The
Germans answered nothing, though all the household
questioned them; and, in good truth, Catiline, it was
not very long that they were capable of answering, for as
soon as you were in bed, they called for wine, and in less
than an hour were thoroughly besotted and asleep. They
are here yet, I think, sleeping away the fumes of their
potent flagons.”

“Call me Arminius, hither. Hold! What is the time
of day.”

“The sun is high already; it must be now near the
fourth hour!”

“So late! you did ill, Chærea, to let me lie so long.
Call me Arminius hither; and send me one of the boys;
or rather go yourself, Chærea, and pray Cornelius Lentulus
the Prætor, to visit me before he take his seat on the Puteal
Libonis. It is his day, I think, to take cognizance of
criminal matters. Begone, and do my bidding!”

Within a moment the Athenian freedman, for he was of
that proud though fallen city, returned conducting the
huge German gladiator, whose bewildered air and blood-shot
eyes seemed to betoken that he had not as yet recovered
fully from the effect of his last night's potations.

No finer contrast could be imagined by poet or painter,
than was presented by those three men, each eminently
striking in his own style, and characteristic of his nation.
The tall spare military-looking Roman, with his hawk
nose and eagle eye, and close shaved face and short black
hair, his every attitude and look and gesture full of pride

and dominion; the versatile and polished Greek, beautiful
both in form and face, as a marble of Praxiteles, beaming
with intellect, and having every feature eloquent of poetry
and imagination, and something of contempt for the
sterner and harder type of mind, to which he and his
countryman were subjugated; and last, the wild strong-limbed
yet stolid-looking German, glaring out with his
bright blue eyes, full of a sort of stupid fierceness, from
the long curls of his auburn hair, a type of man in his
most primitive state, the hunter and the warrior of the
forest, enslaved by Rome's insatiate ambition.

Catiline looked at him fiercely for a moment, and then
nodded his head, as if in assent to some of his own meditations;
then muttering to himself, “the boar! the mast-fed
German boar!” he turned to the Greek, saying sharply—

“Art thou not gone to Lentulus? methought thou
hadst been thither, and returned ere this time! Yet tarry,
since thou art here still. Are any of my clients in the
atrium—any, I mean, of the trustiest!”

“Rufinus, surnamed Lupus, is without, and several
others. Stolo, whom you preserved from infamy, when
accused of dolus malus, in the matter of assault with arms
on Publius Natro, is waiting to solicit you, I fancy, for
some favor.”

“The very man—the Wolf is the very man! and your
suitor for favors cannot refuse to confer what he requests.
Stay my Chærea. Send Glycon to summon Lentulus, and
go yourself and find out what is Stolo's suit. Assure him of
my friendship and support; and, hark you, have him and
Rufinus into an inner chamber, and set bread before them
and strong wine, and return to me presently. Now, then,
Arminius,” he continued, as the Greek left the room,
“what did we do last night, and what befel us?—for I can
remember nothing clearly.”

The giant shook his tawny locks away from his brow,
and gazed into his employer's face with a look of stolid
inquiry, and then answered—

“Do! we did nothing, that I know! We followed thee
as in duty bound to that cave by the Almo; and when we
had stayed there awhile, we brought thee back again,
seeing thou couldst not go alone. What can I tell?
you know yourself why you took us thither.”

“Thou stupid brute!” retorted Catiline, “or worse
than brute, rather—for brutes augment not their brutishness
by gluttony and wine-bibbing—thou art asleep yet!
see if this will awaken thee!”

And with the word he snatched up a large brazen ewer
full of cold water, which stood on a slab near him, and
hurled it at his head. The gladiator stood quite still, and
merely bent his neck a little to avoid the heavy vessel,
which almost grazed his temples, and then shook himself
like a water spaniel, as the contents flashed full into his
face and eyes.

“Do not do that again,” he grunted, “unless you want
to have your throat squeezed.”

“By Pollux the pugilist! he threatens!” exclaimed
Catiline, laughing at his dogged anger. “Do you not
know, cut-throat, that one word of mine can have your
tough hide slashed with whips in the common goal, till
your very bones are bare?”

“And do you know what difference it makes, whether
my hide be slashed with dog-whips in the gaol, or with
broadswords in the amphitheatre? A man can only die!
and it were as well, in my mind, to die having killed a
Roman in his own house, as a countryman on the arena.”

“By all the Gods!” cried Catiline, “he is a philosopher!
but, look you here, my German Solon, you were better
regard me, and attend to what I tell you; so may you
escape both gaol and amphitheatre. Tell me, briefly, distinctly,
and without delay, what fell out last evening.”

“You led us to assault that younker, whom you know;
and when we would have set upon him, and finished his
business easily, he blew a hunting horn, and fifteen or
sixteen stout fellows in full armor came down the bank
from behind and shut up the cave's mouth—you know
as well as I do.”

“So far I do, most certainly,” replied the conspirator,
“but what then?”

“Why, then, thou wouldest not hear reason; but,
though the youth swore he would not betray thee, must
needs lay on, one man against sixteen; and so, as was
like, gottest thine head broken by a blow of a boar-spear
from a great double-handed Thracian. For my part, I wondered
he did not put the spear-head through and through

you. It was a great pity that he did not; it would have
saved us all, and you especially, a world of trouble.”

“And you, cowardly dogs, forsook me; and held back,
when by a bold rush we might easily have slain him, and
cut our way through the dastard slaves.”

“No! no! we could not; they were all Thracians,
Dacians, and Pannonians; and were completely armed,
too. We might have killed him, very likely, but we could
never have escaped ourselves.”

“And he, he? what became of him when I had fallen?”

“He bade us take you up,” replied the German, “and
carry you home, and tell you `to fear nothing, he would
betray no man, least of all you.' He is a fine young fellow,
in my judgment; for he might just as well have killed
us all, as not, if he had been so minded; and I can't say
but that it would have served us rightly, for taking odds
of four to one upon a single man. That is, I know,
what you Romans call fighting; beyond the Rhine we
style it cowardly and murder! Then, after that he went
off with his men, leaving us scratching our heads, and
looking as dastardly and crest-fallen as could be. And
then we brought you home hither, after it had got late
enough to carry you through the streets, without making
an uproar; and then Lydon and Chærea put you to bed;
and I, and Geta, and Ardaric, as for us, we got drunk,
seeing there was no more work to do last night, and not
knowing what might be to do, to-day. And so it is all
well, very well, as I see it.”

“Well, call you it, when he has got off unscathed, and
lives to avenge himself, and betray me?”

“But he swore he would do neither, Catiline,” answered
the simple-minded son of the forest.

“Swore!” replied the conspirator, with a fell sneer.

“Ay did he, master! swore by all that was sacred he
would never betray any man, and you least of all; and I
believe he will keep his promise.”

“So do I,” answered Catiline, bitterly, “I swear he
shall; not for the lack of will, but of means to do otherwise!
You are a stupid brute, Arminius; but useful in
your way. I have no need of you to-day, so go and tell
the butler to give you wine enough to make all three of

you drunk again; but mind that ye are sound, clear-headed,
and alert at day-break to-morrow.”

“But will be give it to me at my bidding?”

“If not, send him to me for orders; now, begone.”

“I ask for nothing better,” replied the gladiator, and
withdrew, without any word or gesture of salutation,
in truth, despising the Roman in his heart as deeply for
what he deemed his over-craftiness and over-civilization, as
the more polished Greek did, for what on his side he considered
the utter absence of both.

Scarce had the German left the room, before the Greek
returned, smiling, and seemingly well satisfied with the
result of his mission.

Catiline looked at him steadily, and nodding his head,
asked him quietly—

“Are they prepared, Chærea?”

“To do anything you would have them, Catiline. Stolo,
it seems, is again emperilled—another charge of attempt
to murder—and he wants you to screen him.”

“And so I will; and will do more. I will make him
rich and great, if he do my bidding. Now go, and make
them understand this. They must swear that they came
hither this morning to claim my aid in bringing them to
speech with Lentulus, the Prætor, and then thou must be
prepared to swear, Chærea, that I have had no speech or
communication with them at all—which is quite true.”

“That is a pity,” answered the Greek, coolly; “for any
one can swear steadily to the truth, but it requires genius
to carry out a lie bravely.”

“Oh! never fear, thou shalt have lies enough to swear to!
Now mark me, when Lentulus comes hither, they must
accuse to him Paullus Cæcilius Arvina, whose person,
if they know him not, you must describe to them—him who
dined with me, you know, the day before yesterday—of
subornation to commit murder. The place where he did so,
the top of the Cælian hill. The time, sunrise on that same
day. The person whom he desired them to slay, Volero
the cutler, who dwelt in the Sacred Way. They must
make up the tale their own way, but to these facts they
must swear roundly. Do you understand me?”

“Perfectly; they shall do it well, and both be in one
tale. I will help them to concoct it, and dress it up with

little truthful incidents that will tell. But are you sure
that he cannot prove he was not there?”

“Quite sure, Chærea. For he was there.”

“And no witnesses who can prove to whom he spoke?”

“Only one witness, and he will say nothing, unless called
upon by Paullus.”

“And if so called upon?”

“Will most reluctantly corroborate the tale of Stolo and
Rufinus!”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the freedman, “thou shouldst have
been a Greek, Catiline, thou art too shrewd to be a mere
Roman.”

“A mere Roman, hang-dog!” answered Catiline, “but
thou knowest thine opportunity, and profitest by it! so let
it pass! Now as for thee, seeing thou dost love lying,
thou shalt have thy part. Thou shalt swear that the night
before that same morning, at a short time past midnight,
thou wert returning by the Wicked street, from the house
of Autronius upon the Quirinal, whither I sent thee to bid
him to dinner the next day—he shall confirm the tale—when
thou didst hear a cry of murder from the Plebeian graveyard
on the Esquiline; and hurrying to the spot, didst see
Arvina, with his freedman Thrasea bearing a torch, conceal
a fresh bleeding body in a broken grave; and, hidden
by the stem of a great tree thyself, didst hear him say, as
he left the ground, `That dog will tell no tales!' Thou must
swear, likewise, that thou didst tell me the whole affair the
next morning, and that I bade thee wait for farther proof
ere speaking of the matter. And again, that we visited
the spot where thou saw'st the deed, and found the grass
trampled and bloody, but could not find the body. Canst
thou do this, thinkest thou?”

“Surely I can,” said the Athenian, rubbing his hands as
if well pleased, “so that no one shalt doubt the truth of it!
And thou wilt confirm the truth?”

“By chiding thee for speaking out of place. See that
thou blurt it out abruptly, as if unable to keep silence any
longer, as soon as the others have finished their tale. Begone
and be speedy. Lentulus will be here anon!”

The freedman withdrew silently, and Catiline was left
alone in communion with his own bad and bitter thoughts;
and painful, as it seemed, and terrible, even to himself, was

that communion, for he rose up from his seat and paced
the room impetuously, to and fro, gnashing and grinding
his teeth, and biting his lips till the blood sprang out.

After a while, however, he mastered his passions, and
began to dress himself, which he did by fits and starts in a
manner perfectly characteristic of the man, uttering hideous
imprecations if the least thing ran counter to his wishes,
and flinging the various articles of his attire about the
chamber with almost frantic violence.

By the time he had finished dressing himself, Lentulus
was announced, and entered with his dignified and haughty
manner, not all unmixed with an air of indolence.

“All hail, my Sergius,” he exclaimed, as he crossed the
threshold. “What hast thou of so grave importance, that
thou must intercept me on my way to the judgment seat?
Nothing has gone wrong in our councils—ha?”

“Nothing that I know,” answered Catiline, “but here
are two of my trustiest clients, Stolo and Rufinus, have been
these three hours waiting for my awakening, that I might
gain your ear for them. They sent me word they had a
very heavy charge to make to you; but for my part, I have
not seen them, and know not what it is.”

“Tush! tush! man; never tell me that,” replied Lentulus,
with a grim smile. “Do you think I will believe you
have sent for me all the way hither this morning, without
some object of your own to serve? No! no! my friend;
with whomsoever that may pass, it will not go current
with Cornelius Lentulus!”

“Just as you please,” said the traitor; “you may believe
me or not exactly as you choose; but it is true, nevertheless,
that I have neither seen the men, nor spoken with
them. Nor do I know at all what they want.”

“I would, then, you had not sent for me,” answered the
other. “Come, let us have the knaves in. I suppose they
have been robbing some one's hen-roost, and want to lay
the blame on some one else!”

“What ho! Chærea.”

And as he spoke the word, the curtain which covered
the door-way was withdrawn, and the keen-witted freedman
made his appearance.

“Admit those fellows, Stolo and Rufinus. The prætor is
prepared to give them a hearing.”

It would have been difficult, perhaps, to have selected
from the whole population of Rome at that day, a more
murderous looking pair of scoundrels.

“Well, sirrahs, what secrets of the state have you that
weigh so ponderously on your wise thoughts?” asked
Lentulus, with a contemptuous sneer.

“Murder, most noble Lentulus—or at least subornation
thereof,” answered one of the ruffians.

“Most natural indeed! I should have thought as much.
Well, tell us in a word—for it is clear that nobody has
murdered either of you—whom have you murdered?”

“If we have murdered no one, it was not for the lack of
prompting, or of bribes either.”

“Indeed! I should have thought a moderate bribe would
have arranged the matter easily. But come! come! to the
point! whom were ye bribed or instigated to get rid of?
speak! I am in haste!”

“The cutler, Caius Volero!”

“Volero! Ha!” cried Lentulus, starting. “Indeed!
indeed! that may well be. By whom, then, were you
urged to the deed, and when?”

“Paulus Cæcilius Arvina tempted us to the deed, by
the offer of ten thousand sesterces! We met him by appointment
upon the Cælian hill, at the head of the Minervium,
a little before sunrise, the day before yesterday.”

“Ha!” and for a moment or two Lentulus fixed his
eyes upon the ground, and pondered deeply on what he
had just heard. “Have ye seen Volero since?”

“No, Prætor.”

“Nor heard anything concerning him?”

“Nothing!” said Stolo. But he spoke with a confused
air and in an undecided tone, which satisfied the judge
that he was speaking falsely. Rufinus interposed, however,
saying—

“But I have, noble Lentulus. I heard say that he was
murdered in his own booth, that same night!”

“And having heard this, you told it not to Stolo?”

“I never thought about it any more,” answered Rufinus
doggedly, seeing that he had got into a scrape.

“That was unfortunate, and somewhat strange, too, seeing
that you came hither together to speak about the very
man. Now mark me. Volero was that night murdered,

and it appears to me, that you are bringing this accusation
against a young patrician, in order to conceal your own
base handiwork in the deed. Fellows, I grievously suspect
you.”

“Wrongfully, then, you do so,” answered Stolo, who
was the bolder and more ready witted of the two. “Rufinus
ever was a forgetful fool; and I trow I am not to be
brought into blame for his folly.”

“Well for you, if you be not brought into more than
blame! Now, mark me well! can you prove where you
were that night of the murder, excellent Stolo?”

“Ay! can I,” answered the man boldly. “I was with
stout Balatro, the fisherman, helping to mend his nets until
the fourth hour, and all his boys were present, helping
us. And then we went to a cookshop to get some supper
in the ox forum, and thence at the sixth hour we passed
across to Lydia's house in the Cyprian lane, and spent a
merry hour or two carousing with her jolly girls. Will that
satisfy you, Lentulus?”

“Ay, if it can be proved,” returned the Prætor. “And
you, Rufinus; can you also show your whereabout that
evening?”

“I can,” replied the fellow, “for I was sick abed; and
that my wife can show, and Themison the druggist, who
lives in the Sacred Way. For she went to get me an emetic
at the third hour; and I was vomiting all night. A poor
hand should I have made that night at murder.”

“So far, then,” replied Lentulus, “you have cleared
yourselves from suspicion; but your charge on Arvina
needs something more of confirmation, ere I dare cite a
Patrician to plead to such a crime! Have you got witnesses?
was any one in sight, when he spoke with you on
the Minervium?”

“There was one; but I know not if he will choose to
speak of it?”

“Who was it?” exclaimed Lentulus, growing a little
anxious on the subject, for though he cared little enough
about Arvina, he was yet unwilling to see a Patrician arraigned
for so small a matter, as was in his eyes the murder
of a mechanic.

“Why should he not speak? I warrant you I will find
means to make him.”

“It was my patron, Lentulus.”

“Your patron! man!” he cried, much astonished.
“What, Catiline, here?”

“Catiline it was! my Prætor.”

“And have you consulted with him, ere you spoke with
me?”

“Not so! most noble, for he would not admit us!”

“Speak, Sergius. Is this so? did you behold these fellows
in deep converse with Cæcilius Arvina, in the Minervium?
But no! it must be folly! for what should you
have been doing there at sunrise?”

“I prithee do not ask me, Lentulus,” answered Catiline,
with an air of well feigned reluctance. “I hate law suits
and judicial inquiries, and I love young Arvina.”

“Then you did see them? Nay! nay! you must speak
out. I do adjure you, Catiline, by all the Gods! were
you, at sunrise, on the Cœlian, and did you see Arvina and
these two?”

“I was, at sunrise, on the Cælian; and I did see them.”

“And heard you what they said?”

“No! but their faces were grave and earnest; and they
seemed angry as they separated.”

“Ha! In itself only, this were a little thing; but when
it turns out that the man was slain that same night, the
thing grows serious. You, therefore, I shall detain here as
witnesses, and partially suspected. Some of your slaves
must guard them, Catiline, and I will send a lictor to cite
Paullus, that he appear before me after the session at the
Puteal Libonis. I am in haste. Farewell!”

“Me! me! hear me! good Lentulus—hear me!” exclaimed
Chærea, springing forward, all vehemence and
eagerness to speak, as it would seem, ere he should be interrupted.

“Chærea?” cried Catiline, looking sternly at him, and
shaking his finger, “Remember!”

“No! no!” replied Chærea—“no! no! I will not hold
my peace! No! Catiline, you may kill me, if you choose,
but I will speak; to keep this secret any longer would kill
me, I tell you.”

“If it do not, I will,” answered his master, angrily.

“This must not be, my Sergius,” interposed Lentulus,
“let the man speak if he have any light to throw on this

mysterious business. Say on, my good fellow, and I will
be your mediator with your master.”

The freedman needed no more exhortation, but poured
out a flood of eager, anxious narrative, as had been
preconcerted between himself and Catiline, speaking with
so much vehemence, and displaying so much agitation in
all his air and gestures, that he entirely imposed his story
upon Lentulus; and that Catiline had much difficulty in
restraining a smile at the skill of the Greek.

“Ha! it is very clear,” said Lentulus, “he first slew
the slave with his own hand, and then would have compassed—nay!
I should rather say, has compassed—Volero's
slaughter, who must some how or other have become
privy to the deed. I must have these detained, and him
arrested! There can be no doubt of his guilt, and the people
will be, I think, disposed to make an example; there
have of late been many cases of assassination!”

As soon as they were left alone, Lentulus looked steadily
into the face of his fellow-conspirator for a moment, and
then burst into a hoarse laugh.

“Why all this mummery, my Sergius?” he added, as
soon as he had ceased from laughing, “Or wherefore would
you have mystified me too?”

“I might have wished to see whether the evidence was
like to seem valid to the Judices, from its effect upon the
Prætor!” answered the other.

“And are you satisfied?”

“I am.”

“You may be so, my Sergius, for, of a truth, until
Chærea swore as he did touching Medon, I was myself deceived.”

“You believe, then, that this will be sufficient to secure
his condemnation?”

“Beyond doubt. He will be interdicted fire and water,
if these men stick to their oaths only. It would be well,
perhaps, to convict one of Arvina's slaves of the actual death
of Volero. That might be done easily enough, but there
must be care taken, that you select one who shall not be
able to prove any alibi. But wherefore are you so bent
on destroying this youth, and by the law, too, which is ever
both perilous and uncertain?”

“He knows too much, to live without endangering
others.”

“What knows he?”

“Who slew Medon—Who slew Volero—What we propose
to do, ere long, in the Campus!” answered Catiline,
steadily.

“By all the Gods?” cried Lentulus, turning very pale,
and remaining silent for some moments. After which he
said, with a thoughtful manner, “it would be better to get
rid of him quietly.”

“That has been tried too.”

“Well?”

“It failed! He is now on his guard. He is brave, strong,
wary. It cannot be done, save thus.”

“He will denounce us. He will declare the whole, ere
we can spring the mine beneath him.”

“No! he will not; he dares not. He is bound by oaths
which —”

“Oaths!” interrupted Lentulus, with a sneer, and in
tones of contemptuous ridicule. “What are oaths? Did
they ever bind you?”

“I do not recollect,” answered Catiline; “perhaps they
did, when I was a boy, and believed in Lemures and Lamia.
But Paullus Arvina is not Lucius Catiline, nor yet Cornelius
Lentulus; and I say that his oaths shall bind him,
until —”

“And I say, they shall not!” A clear high voice interrupted
him, coming, apparently, through the wall of the chamber.

Lentulus started—his very lips were white, and his frame
shook with agitation, if it were not with fear.

Catiline grew pale likewise; but it was rage, not terror,
that blanched his swarthy brow. He dashed his hand upon
the table—

“Furies of Hell!”

While the words were yet trembling on his lips, the door
was thrown violently open, the curtains which concealed it
torn asunder, and, with her dark eyes gleaming a strange
fire, and two hard crimson spots gleaming high up on her
cheek bones—the hectic of fierce passion—her bosom
throbbing, and her whole frame dilated with anger and excitement,
young Lucia stood before them.

“And I say,” she repeated, “that they shall not bind him!
By all the Gods! I swear it! By my own love! my own

dishonor! I swear that they shall not! Fool! fool! did
you think to outwit me? To blind a woman, whose every
fear and passion is an undying eye? Go to! go to! you
shall not do it.”

Audacious, as he was, the traitor was surprised, almost
daunted; and while Lentulus, a little reassured, when he
saw who was the interlocutor, gazed on him in unmitigated
wonder, he faltered out, in tones strangely dissimilar to his
accustomed accents of indomitable pride and decision—

“You mistake, girl; you have not heard aright, if you
have heard, at all; I would say, you are deceived, Lucia!”

“Then would you lie!” she answered, “for I am not
deceived, though you would fain deceive me! Not heard?
not heard?” she continued. “Think you the walls
in the house of Catiline have no eyes nor ears?” using
the very words which he had addressed to her lover;
Lucius Catiline! I know all!

“You know all?” exclaimed Lentulus, aghast.

“And will prevent all!” replied the girl, firmly, “if
you dare cross my purposes!”

“Dare! dare!” replied Catiline, who now, recovering
from his momentary surprise, had regained all his natural
haughtiness and vigor. “Who are you, wanton, that dare
talk to us of daring?”

“Wanton!” replied the girl, turning fiery red. “Ay!
But who made me the wanton that I am? Who fed my
youthful passions? Who sapped my youthful principles?
Who reared me in an atmosphere, whose very breath was
luxury, voluptuousness, pollution, till every drop of my
wholesome blood was turned to liquid flame? till every
passion in my heart became a fettered earthquake? Fool!
fool! you thought, in your impotence of crime, to make
Lucia Orestilla your instrument, your slave! You have
made her your mistress! You dreamed, in your insolence
of fancied wisdom, that, like the hunter-cat of the
Persian despots, so long as you fed the wanton's appetite,
and basely pandered to her passions, she would leap hood-winked
on the prey you pointed her. Thou fool! that
hast not half read thy villain lesson! Thou shouldst have
known that the very cat, thou thoughtest me, will turn and
rend the huntsman if he dare rob her of her portion! I tell
you, Lucius Catiline, you thought me a mere wanton! a

mere sensual thing! a soulless animal voluptuary! Fool!
I say, double fool! Look into thine own heart; remember
what blood runs in these female veins! Man! Father!
Vitiator! My spirit is not female! my blood, my
passions, my contempt of peril, my will indomitable and
immutable, are, like my mortal body, your begetting! My
crimes, and my corruption, are your teaching! Beware
then, as you know the heat of your own appetites, how
you presume to hinder mine! Beware, as you know your
own recklessness in doing and contempt in suffering, how
you stir me, your child, to do and suffer likewise! Beware,
as you know the extent of your own crimes, the depth of
your own pollution, how you drive me, your pupil, to out-do
her master! Beware! I say! beware! This man is
mine. Harm but one hair upon his head, and you shall die,
like a dog, with the dogs who snarl at your bidding, and
your name perish with you. I have spoken!”

There needed not one tenth part of the wisdom, which
the arch-traitor really possessed, to shew him how much he
had miscalculated the range of his daughter's intellect;
the fierce energies of her powerful but misdirected mind.

He felt, for a moment, as the daring archimage whose
spells, too potent for their master's safety, have evoked
and unchained a spirit that defies their guidance. But,
like that archimage, conscious that all depends on the exertion
of his wonted empire, he struggled hard to regain
his lost authority.

“Girl,” he replied, in those firm deep tones of grave
authority, which he deemed the best calculated to control
her excitement, “You are mad! Mad, and ungrateful;
and like a frantic dog would turn and rend the hand that
feeds you, for a shadow. I never thought of making you
an instrument; fool indeed had I been, to think I could
hoodwink such an intellect as yours! If I have striven to
clear away the mists of prejudice from before your eyes,
which, in your senseless anger, you now call corrupting
you, it was because I saw in you a kindred spirit to mine
own, capable to soar fearless and undazzled into the very
noon of reason. If I have taught you to indulge your
passions, opened a universe of pleasures to your ken, it
was that I saw in you a woman of mind so manly, that all
the weaknesses, which fools call affections, would be but

powerless to warp it from its purpose. I would have
made you”—

“The world's scorn!” she interrupted him, bitterly; but
he went on, without noticing the interruption—

“The equal of myself in intellect, in energy, and wisdom;
else how had you dared to brave me thus, whom
never man yet braved and lived to boast of it! And now
for a mere girlish fancy, a weak feminine caprice for a
man, who cares not for you; who has betrayed you; who,
idiot and inconsistent that he is, fresh from your fiery
kisses, was whimpering within an hour at the feet of his
cold Julia; who has, I doubt not, boasted of your favors,
while he deplored his own infatuation, to her, his promised
wife!—For a fond frivolous liking of a moment, you
would forego gratification, rank, greatness, power, and
vengeance! Is this just toward me, wise toward yourself?
Is this like Lucia Orestilla? You would preserve
a traitor who deserts you, nay, scorns you in his easy
triumph! You would destroy all those who love you;
you would destroy yourself, to make the traitor and his
minion happy! Awake! awake, my Lucia, from this soft
foolish fancy! Awake, and be yourself once more! Awake
to wisdom, to ambition, to revenge!”

His words were spirited and fiery; but they struck on
no kindred chord in the bosom of his daughter. On the
contrary, the spark had faded from her eye and the flush
from her cheek, and her looks were dispirited and downcast.
But as he ceased, she raised her eye and met his piercing
gaze firmly, and replied in a sorrowful yet resolute tone.

“Eloquent! aye! you are eloquent! Catiline, would I
had never learned it to my cost; but it is too late now!
it is all too late! for the rest, I am awake; and so far, at
least, am wise, that I perceive the folly of the past, and
decypher clearly the sophistry of your false teaching. As
for the future, hope is dead, and ambition. Revenge, I seek
not; if I did so, thou art there, on whom to wreak it; for
saving thou, and myself only, none have wronged me.
More words are needless. See that thou lay aside thy
plans, and dare not to harm him, or her. He shall not betray
thee or thine; for that will I be his surety and hostage!
Injure them, by deed or by word, and, one and all,
you perish! I ask no promise of you—promises bind you

not!—but let fear bind you, for I promise you, and be sure
that my plight will be kept!”

“Can this be Lucia Orestilla?” exclaimed Catiline,
“this puling love-sick girl, this timorous, repentant—I had
nearly called thee—maiden! Why, thou fool, what would'st
thou with the man farther? Dost think to be his wife?”

“Wife!” cried the wretched girl, clasping her hands
together, and looking piteously in her destroyer's face.
“Wife! wife! and me!—alas! alas! that holy, that dear,
honored name!—Never! never for me the sweet sacred
rites! Never for me the pure chaste kiss, the seat by the
happy hearth, the loving children at the knee, the proud
approving smile of—Oh! ye gods! ye just gods!—a
loved and loving husband!—Wife! wife!” she continued,
lashing herself, as she proceeded, into fresh anger; “there
is not in the gaols of Rome the slave so base as to call
Lucia Orestilla wife! And wherefore, wherefore not?—
Man! man! if that thou be a man, and not a demon,
but for thee, and thy cursed teachings, I might have
known all this—pure bliss, and conscious rectitude, and the
respect and love of men. I might have been the happy bride
of an honorable suitor, the cherished matron of a respected
lord, the proud glad mother of children, that should not
have blushed to be sprung from the wanton Lucia! Thou!
it is thou, thou only that hast done all this!—And why, I
say, why should I not revenge? Beware! tempt me no
farther! Do my bidding! Thou slave, that thought'st but
now to be the master, obey my bidding to the letter!”
And she stamped her foot on the ground, with the imperious
air of a despotic queen. And in truth, crest-fallen
and heavy in spirit, were the proud men whom she so superbly
threatened.

She gazed at them contemptuously for a moment, and
then, shaking her fore finger menacingly, “I leave ye,” she
said, “I leave ye, but imagine not, that I read not your
councils. Me, you cannot deceive. With yourselves
only it remains to succeed or to perish. For if ye dare to
disobey me, the gods themselves shall not preserve you
from my vengeance!”

“I fear you not, my girl,” cried Catiline, “for all that you
are now mad with disappointment, and with anger. So
you may go, and listen if you will,” he added, pointing to

the secret aperture concealed in the mouldings of the wall.
“We shall not speak the less freely for your hearing us.”

“There is no need to listen now,” she answered, “for
I know everything already.”

“Every thing that we have said, Lucia.”

“Everything that you will do, Sergius Catiline!”

“Aye?”

“Aye! and everything that I shall do, likewise!” and
with the word she left the room.

“A perilous girl, by all the Gods!” said Lentulus, in
Greek, as she disappeared. “Will she do as she threatens?”

“Tush!” replied Catiline in Latin, “she speaks Greek
like an Athenian. I am not sure, however, that she could
understand such jargon as that is. No! she will do none
of that. She is the cleverest and best girl living, only a little
passionate, for which I love her all the more dearly.
No! she will do none of that. Because she will not be alive,
to do it, this time to-morrow,” he added, putting his mouth
within half an inch of the ear of Lentulus, and speaking
in the lowest whisper.

Lentulus, bold as he was and unscrupulous, started in
horror at his words, and his lips were white as he faltered
—“Your own daughter, Lucius!”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the fierce conspirator, aloud; “ha!
ha! yes, she is my own daughter, in everything but beauty.
She is the loveliest creature in all Rome! But we must
yield, I suppose, to her wishes; the women rule us, after
all is said, and I suppose I was alarmed needlessly.
Doubtless Arvina will be silent. Come, I will walk with
you so far on your way to the Forum. What ho! Chærea,
see that Rufinus and Stolo lack nothing. I will speak with
them, when I return home; and hark you in your ear.
Suffer not Lucia Orestilla to leave the house a moment;
use force if it be needed; but it will not. Tell her it is my
orders, and watch her very closely. Come, Lentulus, it
is drawing toward noon.”

They left the house without more words, and walked
side by side in silence for some distance, when Catiline said
in a low voice, “This is unpleasant, and may be dangerous.
We must, however, trust to fortune till to-morrow,
when my house shall be void of this pest. Then will we
proceed, as we had proposed.”

Lentulus looked at him doubtfully, and asked, with a
quick shudder running through his limbs, as he spoke:
“And will you really?—” and there he paused, unable
to complete the question.

“Remove her?” added Catiline, completing the sentence
which he had left unfinished, “Ay! will I. Just as I
would a serpent from my path!”

“And that done, what is to follow?” Lentulus inquired,
with an assumption of coolness, which in truth he did not
feel.

“We will get rid of Arvina. And then, as it wants but
four days of the elections, we may keep all things quiet till
the time.”

“Be it so!” answered the other. “When do we meet
again to settle these things finally?”

“To-morrow, at the house of Læca, at the sixth hour of
night.”

“Will all be there?”

“All the most faithful; until then, farewell!”

“Farewell.”

And they parted; Lentulus hurrying to the Forum, to
take his seat on the prætor's chair, and there preside in
judgment—fit magistrate!—on men, the guiltiest of whom
were pure as the spotless snow, when compared with his
own conscious guilt; and Catiline to glide through dark
streets, visiting discontented artizans, debauched mechanics,
desperate gamblers, scattering dark and ambiguous
promises, and stirring up that worthless rabble—who, with
all to gain and nothing to lose by civil strife and tumult,
abound in all great cities—to violence and thirst of blood.

Three or four hours at least he spent thus; and well satisfied
with his progress, delighted by the increasing turbulence
of the fierce and irresponsible democracy, and
rejoicing in having gained many new and fitting converts
to his creed, he returned homeward, ripe for fresh villainy.
Chærea met him on the threshold, with his face pale and
haggard from excitement.

“Catiline,” he exclaimed, “she had gone forth already,
before you bade me watch her!”

“She!—Who, slave? who?” and knowing perfectly
who was meant, yet hoping, in his desperation, that he
heard not aright, he caught the freedman by the throat, and
shook him furiously.

“Lucia Orestilla,” faltered the trembling menial.

“And has not returned?” thundered the traitor.

“Catiline, no!”

“Liar! and fool!” cried the other, gnashing his teeth
with rage, as he gave way to his ungovernable fury, and
hurling him with all his might against the marble door-post.

The freedman fell, like a dead man, with the blood gushing
from his nose and mouth; and Catiline, striding across
the prostrate body, retired sullenly and slowly to muse on
the disappointment of this his most atrocious project, in
the darkness and solitude of his own private chamber,
whither none dared intrude unsummoned.