University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
THE RESCUE.

Lady of the Lake.

Scarcely had the door closed behind Catiline, who rushed
forth torch in hand, as if goaded by the furies of Orestes,
when half a dozen stout men, sheathed in the full armor of
Roman legionaries, sprang out of the brushwood on the
gorge's brink, and seizing the ropes which had hung idle
during that critical hour, hauled on them with such energetical
and zealous power, that the ladder was drawn
across the chasm with almost lightning speed.

The hooks, with which its outer end was garnished,
caught in the crevices of the ruined wall, and a slender
communication was established, although the slight structure
which bridged the abyss was scarcely capable of supporting
the weight of a human being.

The soldiers, accustomed, as all Roman soldiers were,
to all the expediences and resources of warefere had prepared
planks which were to be run forward on the ladder,
in order to construct a firm bridge. For the plan of the
besiegers, until interrupted by Catiline's arrival, had been
to take the stronghold in reverse, while a false attack in
front should be in progress, and throwing ten or twelve
stout soldiers into the heart of the place, to make themselves
masters of it by a coup-de-main.

This well-devised scheme being rendered unfeasible by
the sudden charge of Catiline's horse, and the rout of the

legionaries, the small subaltern's detachment, which had
been sent round under Lucia's guidance—for it was she
who had discerned the means of passing the chasm, while
lying in wait to assist Julia, and disclosed it to the centurion
commanding—had been left alone, and isolated, its
line of retreat cut off, and itself without a leader.

The singular scenes, however, which they had witnessed,
the interest which almost involuntarily they had been
led to take in the fate of the fair girl, her calm and dauntless
fortitude, and above all the atrocious villainy of Catiline,
had inspired every individual of that little band with
an heroic resolution to set their lives upon a cast, in order
to rescue one who to all of them was personally unknown.

In addition to this, the discovery of Lucia's sex—for
they had believed her to be what she appeared, a boy—
which followed immediately on the less of her Phrygian
bonnet, and the story of her bitter wrongs, which had
taken wind, acted as a powerful incentive to men naturally
bold and enterprising.

For it is needless to add, that with the revelation of her
sex, that of her character as the arch-traitor's child and
victim went, as it were, hand in hand.

They had resolved, therefore, on rescuing the one, and
revenging the other of these women, at any risk to themselves
whatsoever; and now having waited their opportunity
with the accustomed patience of Roman veterans,
they acted upon it with their habitual skill and celerity.

But rapid as were their movements, they were outstripped
by the almost superhuman agility of Lucia, who,
knowing well the character of the human fiend with whom
they had to contend, his wondrous promptitude in counsel,
his lightning speed in execution, was well assured that
there was not one moment to be lost, if they would save
Arvina's betrothed bride from a fate worse than many
deaths.

As soon therefore as she saw the hooks of the scaling
ladder catch firm hold of the broken wall, before a single
plank had been laid over its frail and distant rungs, she
bounded over it with the light and airy foot of a practised
dancer—finding account at that perilous moment in one of
those indelicate accomplishments in which she had been
instructed for purposes the basest and most horrible.

Accustomed as they were to deeds of energy and rapid
daring, the stout soldiers stood aghast; for, measuring the
action by their own weight and ponderous armature, they
naturally overrated its peril to one so slightly made as
Lucia.

And yet the hazard was extreme, for not taking it into
account that a single slip or false step must precipitate her
into the abyss, the slender woodwork of the ladder actually
bent as she alighted on it, from each of her long airy
bounds.

It was but a second, however, in which she glanced
across it, darted through the small embrasure, and was
lost to the eyes of the men within the darkness of the old
barrack.

Astonished though they were at the girl's successful
daring, the soldiers were not paralyzed at all, nor did they
cease from their work.

In less than a minute after she had entered the window,
a board was thrust forward, running upon the framework
of the ladder, and upon that a stout plank, two feet in
breadth, capable of supporting, if necessary, the weight of
several armed men.

Nor had this bridge been established many seconds
before the soldier in command ran forward upon it, and
met Lucia at the embrasure, bearing with strength far
greater than her slight form and unmuscular limbs appeared
to promise, the still senseless form of Julia.

Catching her from the arms of Lucia, the robust legionary
cast the fainting girl across his shoulder as though she
had been a feather; and rushed back with her toward his
comrades, crying aloud in haste alarm—

“Quick! quick! follow me quick, Lucia. I hear footsteps,
they are coming!”—

The caution was needless, for almost outstripping the
heavy soldier, the fleet-footed girl stood with him on the
farther bank.

Yet had it come a moment later, it would have come all
too late.

For having with his wonted celerity ascertained the
truth of these fatal tidings, and ordered the body of horse
whom he had brought up with him, and who had returned
from pursuing the infantry, on seeing a larger body com

ing up from Antonius' army, to return with all speed to
the camp of Manlius, retaining only a dozen troopers as a
personal escort, Catiline had come back to bear off his
lovely captive.

The clang of his haughty step had reached the ears of
the legionary just as he drew poor Julia, unconscious of
her rescue, though the barrack window; and as they
stood on the brink of the ravine, thus far in safety, the red
glare of the torches streaming through the embrasures,
announced the arrival of their enemies, within almost arm's
length of them.

The awful burst of imprecations which thundered from
the lips of Catiline, as he perceived that his victim had
been snatched from him, struck awe even into the hearts of
those brave veterans.

A tiger robbed of its young is but a weak and poor
example of the frantic, ungovernable, beast-like rage
which appeared to prevail entirely above all senses, all
consideration, and all reason.

“May I perish ill! may I die crucified! may the fowls
of the air, the beasts of the field devour me, if she so escape!”
he shouted; and perceiving the means by which
she had been carried off, he called loudly for his men to
follow, and was in the very act of leaping out from the
embrasure upon the bridge, which they had not time to
withdraw, when one of the legionaries spurned away the
frail fabric with his foot, and drawing his short falchion
severed the cords which secured it, at a single blow.

Swinging off instantly in mid air, it was dashed heavily
against the rocky wall of the precipice, and, dislodged by
the shock, the planks went thundering down into the torrent,
at the bottom of the gorge; while upheld by the
hooks to the stone window sill, the ladder hung useless on
Catiline's side of the chasm, all communication thus completely
interrupted.

At the same moment three of the heavy pila, which
were the peculiar missiles of the legion, were hurled by as
many stout arms at the furious desperado; but it was not
his fate so to perish. One of the pondrous weapons hurtled
so close to his temple that the keen head razed the skin,
the others, blunted or shivered against the sides or lintel
of the window, fell harmless into the abyss.

“Thou fool!” cried the man who had rescued Julia,
addressing him who had cut away the bridge, “thou
shouldst have let him reach the middle, ere thou didst
strike that blow. Then would he have lain there now,” and
he pointed down ward with his finger into the yawning gulf.

“I do not know,” replied the other. “By the Gods!
Catiline is near enough to me, when he is twenty paces
distant.”

“Thou art right, soldier, and didst well and wisely,”
said Lucia, hastily. “Hadst thou tarried to strike until
he reached the middle, thou never wouldst have stricken
at all. One foot without that window, he would have
cleared that chasm, as easily as I would leap a furrow.
But come! come! come! we must not loiter, nor lose one
instant. He will not so submit to be thwarted. I have
two horses by the roadside yonder. Their speed alone
shall save us.”

“Right! right!” replied the soldier, “lead to them
quickly. It is for life or death! Hark! he is calling his
men now to horse. We shall have a close run for it, by
Hercules!”—

“And we?”—asked one of the veterans—

“Disperse yourselves among the hills, and make your
way singly to the camp. He will not think of you, with us
before him!”—

“Farewell! The Gods guide and guard thee!”—

“We shall much need, I fear, their guidance!” answered
the legionary, setting off at a swift pace, still bearing
Julia, who was now beginning to revive in the fresh air,
following hard on Lucia, who ran, literally like the wind,
to the spot where she had tied her own beautiful white
Ister, and another horse, a powerful and well-bred Thracian
charger, to the stems of two chesnut trees, in readiness
for any fortunes.

Rapidly as the soldier ran, still the light-footed girl
outstripped him, and when he reached the sandy road, she
had already loosened the reins from the trees to which
they had been attached, and held them in readiness.

“Mount, mount,” cried Lucia, “for your life! I will
help you to lift her.”

“I am better now,” exclaimed Julia—“Oh ye Gods!
and safe too! I can help myself now! and in an instant

she was seated behind the stout man-at-arms, and clinging
with both hands to his sword belt.

“If you see me no more, as I think you will not, Julia,
tell Paullus, Lucia saved you, and — died, for love of him!
Now—ride! ride! ride! for your life ride!”

And giving their good horses head they sprang forth,
plying the rein and scourge, at headlong speed.

As they ascended the first little hillock, they saw the
troopers of Catiline pouring out of the watch-tower gate,
and thundering down the slope toward the bridge, with
furious shouts, at a rate scarcely inferior to their own.

They had but one hope of safety. To reach the little
bridge and pass it before their pursuers should gain it,
and cut off their retreat toward their friends, whom they
knew to be nigh at hand; but to do so appeared well
nigh impossible.

It was a little in their favor that the steeds of Catiline's
troopers had been harassed by a long and unusually rapid
night march, while their own were fresh and full of spirit;
but this advantage was neutralized at least by the double
weight which impeded the progress and bore down the
energies of the noble Thracian courser, bearing Julia
and the soldier.

Again it was in their favor that the road on their side
the chasm was somewhat shorter and much more level
than that by which Catiline and his riders were straining
every nerve, gallopping on a parallel line with the
tremulous and excited fugitives; but this advantage also
was diminished by the fact that they must turn twice at
right angles—once to gain the bridge, and once more into
the high road beyond it—while the rebels had a straight
course, though down a hill side so steep that it might well
be called precipitous.

The day had by this time broken, and either party could
see the other clearly, even to the dresses of the men and
the colors of the horses, not above the sixth part of a mile
being occupied by the valley of the stream dividing the
two roads.

For life! fire flashed from the flinty road at every bound
of the brave coursers, and blood flew from every whirl of
the knotted thong; but gallantly the high-blooded beasts
answered it. At every bound they gained a little on their

pursuers, whose horses foamed and labored down the abrupt
descent, one or two of them falling and rolling over
their riders, so steep was the declivity.

For life! Catiline had gained the head of his party, and
his black horse had outstripped them by several lengths.

If the course had been longer the safety of the fugitives
would have been now certain; but so brief was the space
and so little did they gain in that awful race, that the
nicest eye hardly could have calculated which first would
reach the bridge.

So secure of his prize was Catiline, that his keen blade
was already out, and as he bowed over his charger's neck,
goring his flanks with his bloody spurs, he shouted in his
hoarse demoniacal accents, “Victory and vengeance!”

Still, hopeful and dauntless, the stout legionary gallopped
on—“Courage!” he exclaimed, “courage, lady, we
shall first cross the bridge!”—

Had Lucia chosen it, with her light weight and splendid
horsemanship, she might easily have left Julia and the soldier,
easily have crossed the defile in advance of Catiline,
easily have escaped his vengeance. But she reined in
white Ister, and held him well in hand behind the others,
muttering to herself in low determined accents, “She shall
be saved, but my time is come!”

Suddenly there was a hasty shout of alarm from the
troopers on the other side, “Hold, Catiline! Rein up!
Rein up!” and several of the foremost riders drew in their
horses. Within a minute all except Catiline had halted.

“They see our friends! they are close at hand! We are
saved! by the Immortal Gods! we are saved!” cried the
legionary, with a cry of triumph.

But in reply, across the narrow gorge, came the hoarse
roar of Catiline, above the din of his thundering gallop.—
“By Hades! Death! or vengeance!”

“Ride! ride!” shrieked Lucia from behind, “Ride, I
say, fool! you are not saved! He will not halt for a host
when revenge spurs him! For your life! ride!”

It was a fearful crisis.

The Thracian charger reached the bridge. The hollow
arch resounded but once under his clanging hoofs—the second
stride cleared it. He wheeled down the road, and
Julia, pale as death, whose eyes had been closed in the agony

of that fearful expectation, unclosed them at the legionary's
joyous shout, but closed them again in terror and
despair with a faint shriek, as they met the grim countenance
of Catiline, distorted with every hellish passion, and
splashed with blood gouts from his reeking courser's side,
thrust forward parallel nearly to the black courser's foamy
jaws—both nearly within arm's length of her, as it appeared
to her excited fancy.

“We are lost! we are lost!” she screamed.

“We are saved! we are saved!” shouted the soldier as
he saw coming up the road at a gallop to meet them, the
bronze casques and floating horse-hair crests, and scarlet
cloaks, of a whole squadron of legionary cavalry, arrayed
beneath a golden eagle—the head of their column scarcely
distant three hundred yards.

But they were not saved yet, not would have been—for
Catiline's horse was close upon their croupe and his uplifted
blade almost flashed over them—when, with a wild
cry. Lucia dashed her white Ister at full speed, as she
crossed the bridge, athwart the counter of black Erebus.

The thundering speed at which the black horse came
down the hill, and the superior weight of himself and his
rider, hurled the white palfrey and the brave girl headlong;
but his stride was checked, and, blown as he was, he stumbled,
and rolled over, horse and man.

A minute was enough to save them, and before Lucia had
regained her feet, the ranks of the new comers had opened
to receive the fugitives, and had halted around them, in
some slight confusion.

“The Gods be blessed for ever!” she exclaimed, clasping
her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven. “I have
saved her!”

“And lost thyself, thrice miserable fool!” hissed a hoarse
well known voice in her ear, as a heavy hand seized her
by the shoulder, and twisted her violently round.

She stood face to face with Catiline, and met his horrid
glare of hate with a glance prouder than his own and
brighter. She smiled triumphantly, as she said in a clear
high voice.

“I have saved her!”

“For which, take thy reward, in this, and this, and this!”

And with the words he dealt her three stabs, the least of

which was mortal; but, even in that moment of dread passion,
with fiendish ingenuity he endeavored to avoid giving
her a wound that should be directly fatal.

There writhe, and howl, 'till slow death relieve you!”

“Meet end to such beginning!” cried the unhappy girl.
“Adulterous parent! incestuous seducer! kindred slayer!
ha! ha! ha! ha!” and with a wild laugh she fell to the
ground and lay with her eyes closed, motionless and for
the moment senseless.

But he, with his child's blood smoking on his hand, shook
his sword aloft fiercely against the legionaries, and leaping
on his black horse which had arisen from the ground unhurt
by its fall, gallopped across the bridge; and plunging
through the underwood into the deep chesnut forest was
lost to the view of the soldiers, who had spurred up in
pursuit of him, that they abandoned it ere long as hopeless.

It was not long that Lucia lay oblivious of her sufferings.
A sense of fresh coolness on her brow, and the checked
flow of the blood, which gushed from those cruel wounds,
were the first sensations of which she became aware.

But, as she opened her eyes, they met well known and
loving faces; and soft hands were busy about her bleeding
gashes; and hot tears were falling on her poor pallid face
from eyes that seldom wept.

Julia was kneeling at her side, Paullus Arvina was bending
over her in speechless gratitude, and sorrow; and the
stern cavaliers of the legion, unused to any soft emotions,
stood round holding their chargers' bridles with frowning
brows, and lips quivering with sentiments, which few of
them had experienced since the far days of their gentler
boyhood.

“Oh! happy,” she exclaimed, in a soft low tone, “how
happy it is so to die! and in dying to see thee, Paullus.”

“Oh! no! no! no!” cried Julia, “you must not, shall
not die! my friend, my sister! O, tell her, Paullus, that she
will not die, that she will yet be spared to our prayers, our
love, our gratitude, our veneration.”

But Paullus spoke not; a soldier, and a man used to see
death in all shapes in the arena, he knew that there was
no hope, and, had his life depended on it, he could not, at
that moment have deceived her.

Little, however, cared the dying girl for that; even if she
had heard or comprehended the appeal. Her ears, her
mind, were full of other thoughts, and a bright beautiful
irradiation played over her wan lips and ashy features, as
she cried joyously, although her voice was very tremulous
and weak,

“Paullus, do you hear that? her friend! her sister!
Paullus, Paullus, do you hear that? Julia calls me her
friend—me, me her sister! me the disgraced—”

“Peace! peace! Dear Lucia! you must not speak such
words!” said Paullus. Be your past errors what they may
—and who am I, that I should talk of errors?—this pure
high love—this delicate devotion—this death most heroical
and glorious no! no! I cannot—” and the strong man
bowed his head upon his hands, and burst into an agony of
tears and passion.

No revelation from on high had taught those poor Romans,
that `joy shall be in heaven, over the sinner that repenteth,
more than over ninety and nine just persons that
need no repentance.'

Yet groping darkly on their way by the dim lights of
nature and philosophy, they had perceived, at least, that
it is harder far for one corrupted from her very childhood,
corrupted by the very parents who should have guided,
with all her highest qualities of mind and body perverted
studiously till they had hardened into vices, to raise herself
erect at once from the slough of sensuality and sin, and
spring aloft, as the butterfly transmuted from the grub,
into the purity and loveliness of virtue—than for one, who
hath known no trial, suffered no temptation, to hold the
path of rectitude unswerving.

And Julia, whose high soul and native delicacy were all
incapable of comprehending the nature, much less the seductions,
of such degradation, as that poor victim of parental
villainy had undergone, saw clearly and understood
at a glance, the difficulty, the gloriousness, the wonder of
that beautiful regeneration.

“No, no. Dear Lucia, dear sister, if you love that
name,” she said in soothing tones, holding her cold hands
clasped in her own quivering fingers, “indeed, indeed you
must not think or speak of yourself thus. Your sins, if
you have sinned, are the sins of others, your virtues and

your excellence, all, all your own. I have heard many
times of women, who have fallen from high virtue, in spite
of noble teachings, in spite of high examples, and whom
neither love nor shame could rescue from pollution—but
never, never, did I hear of one who so raised herself, alone,
unaided, in spite of evil teaching, in spite the atrocity of
others, in spite of infamous examples, to purity, devotion
such as thine! But, fear not, Lucia. Fear not, dearest
girl, you shall not die, believe—”

“I do not fear, I desire it,” said the dying girl, who was
growing weaker and fainter every moment. “To a life,
and a love like mine, both guilty, both unhappy, death is a
refuge, not a terror; and if there be, as you believe, who are
so wise and virtuous, a place beyond the grave, where
souls parted here on earth, may meet and dwell in serene
and tranquil bliss, perhaps, I say, perhaps, Julia, this death
may compensate that life—this blood may wash away the
sin, the shame, the pollution.”

“Believe it, O believe it!” exclaimed Julia earnestly.
“How else should the Gods be all-great and all-wise; since
vice triumphs often here, and virtue pines in sorrow. Be
sure, I say, be sure of it, there is a place hereafter, where
all sorrows shall be turned to joy, all sufferings compensated,
all inequalities made even. Be sure of that, dear
Lucia.”

“I am sure of it,” she replied, a brighter gleam of pleasure
crossing her features, on which the hues of death were
fast darkening. “I am sure of it now. I think my mind
grows clearer, as my body dies away. I see—I see—there
is God! Julia—there is an hereafter—an eternity—rest for
the weary, joy for the woful! yes! yes! I see—I feel it.
We shall meet, Julia. We shall meet, Paullus, Paullus!”
And she sank back fainting and overpowered upon Julia's
bosom.

In a moment or two, however, she opened her eyes
again, but it was clear that the spirit was on the point of
taking its departure.

“I am going!” she said in a very low voice. “I am
going. His sword was more merciful than its master.—
Bury me in a nameless grave. Let no stone tell the tale
of unhappy, guilty Lucia. But come sometimes, Julia,
Paullus, and look where I lie; and sometimes—will you
not sometimes remember Lucia?”

“You shall live in our souls forever!” replied Julia,
stooping down to kiss her.

“In your arms, Paullus, in your arms! will you not let
me, Julia? 'Twere sweet to die in your arms, Paullus.”—

“How can you ask?” cried Julia, who scarce could
speak for the tears and sobs, which almost choked her.

“Here, Paullus, take her, gently, gently.”

“Oh! sweet—oh! happy!” she murmured, as she
leaned her head against his heart, and fixed her glazing
eyes upon his features, and clasped his hand with her poor
dying fingers. “She told you, Paullus, that for your love
I died to save her!”

“She did—she did—dear, dearest Lucia!”—

“Kiss me,” she whispered; “I am going very fast.
Kiss me on the brow, Paullus, where years ago you kissed
me, when I was yet an innocent child.” Then, fancying that
he hesitated, she cried, “you will let him kiss me, now,
will you not, Julia? He is yours”—

“Oh! kiss her, kiss her, Paullus,” exclaimed Julia
eagerly, “how could you fancy, Lucia, that I should wish
otherwise? kiss her lips, not her brow, Paullus Arvina.”

“Kiss me first thou, dear Julia. I may call you dear.”

“Dear Lucia, dearest sister!”

And the pure girl leaned over and pressed a long kiss
on the cold lips of the unhappy, guilty, regenerated being,
whose death had won for her honor, and life, and happiness.

“Now, Paullus, now,” cried Lucia, raising herself
from his bosom by a last feeble effort, and stretching out
her arms, “now, ere it be too late!”—

He bowed down to her and kissed her lips, and she
clasped her arms close about his neck, and returned that
last chaste caress, murmuring “Paullus, mine own in
death, mine own, own Paullus!”—

There was a sudden rigor, a passing tremulous spasm,
which ran through her whole frame for a moment—her
arms clasped his neck more tightly than before, and then
released their hold, all listless and unconscious—her head
fell back, with the eyes glazed and visionless, and the
white lips half open.

“She is dead, Julia!” exclaimed Paullus, who was not

ashamed to weep at that sad close of so young and sorrowful
a life, “dead for our happiness!”

“Hush! hush!” cried Julia, who was still gazing on
the face of the dead—“There is a change—see! see! how
beautiful, how tranquil!”—

And in truth a sweet placid smile had settled about the
pallid mouth, and nothing can be conceived more lovely
than the calm, holy, pure expression which breathed from
every lineament of the lifeless countenance.

“She is gone, peace to her manes.”

“She is at rest, now, Paullus, she is happy!” murmured
Julia. “How excellent she was, how true, how brave,
how devoted! Oh! yes! I doubt not, she is happy.”

“The Gods grant it!” he replied fervently. “But I
have yet a duty,” and drawing his short straight sword he
severed one long dark curl from the lifeless head, and
raising it aloft in his left hand, while with the right he
pointed heavenward the gleaming steel, “Ye Gods!” he
cried, “supernal and infernal! and ye spirits and powers,
shades of the mighty dead! Hear earth, and heaven, and
thou Tartarus! by this good steel, by this right hand, in
presence of this sacred dead, I swear, I devote Catiline
and his hated head to vengeance! By this sword may he
perish; may this hair be steeped in his lifeblood; may he
know himself, when dying, the victim of my vengeance—
may dogs eat his body—and his unburied spirit know
neither Tartarus nor Elysium!”—

It was strange, but as he ceased from that wild imprecation,
a faint flash of lightning veined the remote horizon,
and a low clap of thunder rumbled afar off, echoing among
the hills—perchance the last of a storm, unheard before
and unnoticed by the distracted minds of the spectators of
that scene.

But the superstitious Romans accepted it as an omen.

“Thunder!”—cried one.

“The Gods have spoken!”—

“I hail the omen!” exclaimed Paullus, sheathing his
sword, and thrusting the tress of hair into his bosom. “By
my hand shall he perish!”

And thenceforth, it was believed generally by the soldiers,
that in the coming struggle Catiline was destined to
fall, and by the hand of Paul Arvina.