University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The Procession of the Conspirators to Death. Night. The Forum, by Torchlight, lined with Troops. A Range of Scaffolds in the distance, with Executioners; the Multitude crowding round them; distant Trumpets sounding from time to time; the Way from the Palatine, by the Via Sacra, illuminated; People in the Balconies and on the Roofs; a rush of the Citizens to the front of the Stage; distant Shouts.
FIRST MAN.
Those shouts are for the Consul. Clear the way!

SECOND MAN.
This is a perilous crowd;—all Rome's abroad.

THIRD MAN.
Long health to Cicero!—But for him, our necks
Would have been headless now.

FOURTH MAN.
The rebels' swords
Would have made sport among the citizens.
[A burst of trumpets.
Hark!

FIRST MAN.
They're nigh at last.

SECOND MAN.
They left the Palatine
An hour ago, and scarce could make their way
Through thousands strewing garments on the ground,
And kneeling to kiss Cicero's hand. The air
Is thick with chaplets showering from the roofs
And tapestried casements, where our noblest dames
Send their prayers after him.

THIRD MAN.
Stand back. He comes!

[The Crowd divide; the Procession advances, headed by Trumpets, blowing a funeral March; then follow Troops, Priests, Lictors; Cicero, with a drawn Sword, leading

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134

Lentulus, in Chains; Senators, in their robes, leading each a Prisoner. As they pass, the dialogue continues.
FIRST MAN.
That's Lentulus, the Cornelian!—Cinna's blood.
A kingly epicure!—See his tangled hair
And flushing cheek, as if the last night's drink
Still fever'd him.

SECOND MAN.
How stately Cicero looks!

THIRD MAN.
If ever man look'd like a god, 't is he!

FOURTH MAN.
If ever man felt like a god, 't is he!

FIRST MAN.
See old Autronius: he was Consul once,—
A jester even in bonds.

SECOND MAN.
Who's he that stoops?—
Pale as a beaten slave.

THIRD MAN.
That's Marcus Cassius;
Last year he canvass'd against Cicero.

FOURTH MAN.
Those two are Sylla's nephews.

FIRST MAN.
How the first
Glares like a tiger chain'd! He would have worn
His uncle's thirstiest sword.—His brother's eye
Is lofty, and he treads the ground like one,
Who would have had his nobler part, and been
Rome's hero.

[The Procession continues to the Foot of the Scaffolds; the Conspirators ascend: the Trumpets give the Signal for Death. The People shout—“Hail, Cicero.—Father of his Country!” The Scene closes.

SCENE II.

Evening. Catiline's Army in the Apennines. An Encampment. A General's Tent in the Centre, with Standards in front, round the Silver Eagle. A Flourish of Trumpets. Cethegus and Valerius come from the Tent.
VALERIUS.
Our work's ill-omen'd; we must sheathe our swords.

CETHEGUS.
Ay—but in Roman bosoms!

VALERIUS
(pointing to the distance).
See that smoke!

CETHEGUS.
Above the out-post?

VALERIUS.
No;—where yonder vines
Festoon the valley.—In that yellow thatch
Now the sunn'd peasant at his supper sits,
With all his babes about him;—then lies down,
Blessing the gods, and thus shuts in the day,
Unpress'd by heavier thoughts than with what face
To morrow's sun shall look upon the sky,
Or in what hive his honey-bees shall swarm,
Or to what elm his vine shall be a bride;
Or whether he shall pipe his woolly flocks
To hill or vale,—or some such gentle care,
To put a healthful motion in his mind.—
I'm weary of the sword.—

CETHEGUS.
Then take the scrip!
You are a music-lover, and sigh Greek.
This comes of evil company. Your lyre
Has broke the rest of many a stately dame,
Who left her curtains tenantless, to gaze,
Where the chill'd minstrel sent his amorous soul
Up through the moonshine.

VALERIUS
(despondingly).
Catiline's undone!

CETHEGUS.
Give me a boar-spear, and my Thracian hounds—
A cross of the Epirot, Pyrrhus' breed,
The noblest of the world! Cethegus asks
No better kingdom than these forest hills.
The sun should never find me in my hut,
Nor evening see me homewards, but with spoil
Of stately venison hanging at my back,
Or boar's head on my spear;—my horn should be
My music,—worth a thousand twanging harps:—
My honest courtiers, my bold brinded dogs,—
My palace pomps, the trophies of the chase,
Antlers and tusky skulls, the eagle's plume,
Vulture and otter, bear, and villain fox,
Hung round my heathy walls!—

[Catiline comes from the tent.
VALERIUS.
Hail, general!—

CATILINE.
That skirmish was disastrous; but the troops
Are of true mettle.

VALERIUS.
We had gain'd the hill,
But for Hamilcar's charge upon our flank.
I knew his furious speed.

CETHEGUS.
Numidian traitor!
He shall be found.

CATILINE.
He's sacred to my sword.—
What of the enemy?

VALERIUS.
They move to-night.

CETHEGUS.
To stop our road to Gaul?

CATILINE.
My road is—Rome!

CETHEGUS.
I have some lingering weakness that half bends
My sword to Gaul.

CATILINE.
(turning on him).
Is it the Roman soul,
Or Rome's brown walls and ditches, that make Rome?
If't is the soul, this spot is the true Rome,
And the proud Capitol's a den of thieves.

CETHEGUS.
When do you march? I'm ready, live or die.—
Ages could not rebuild the Palatine!

[Gloomily.
CATILINE
(with impatience).
You are a Roman citizen! Will Rome
Feed, clothe you; find a roof to screen your head
From the same violence of earth and air
That pelts the beggar? Where's her largess now?
Where holds she her purse open for your hands
To plunge in, and be rich?—Whom should you love?
Him who loves you: and whom pursue to death,
But him who wears a dagger for your heart?

CETHEGUS.
I hate her men.

CATILINE
(contemptuously).

CETHEGUS
(offering his hand).
Catiline!
Those are hard words:—There's not a man on earth
But you, that might have used such bitter speech,
And lived to boast of 't!—Twice you saved my life;
In Spain, and in my dungeon. Now my sword
Is yours for ever!

CATILINE
(clasping his hand).
There!—Let 's die like friends!
My speech was rash; forgive it,—'t was a mind
Stuff'd with distemper'd thoughts that spoke—not I.
[A distant sound.
What tumult's there?

VALERIUS.
Some clamour of the camp.

CETHEGUS.
Our murmurers talk of peace!

CATILINE.
Of peace!—Pale fools!—
Have I not cut 'twixt Rome and me a trench,
That it must take our bodies to fill up?
Who calls me hypocrite? The rebel's work
Is blood and plunder! Who draws this for good!
[Drawing his sword.
This emblem of all miseries and crimes,—
The robber's tool, that breaks the rich man's lock,—
The murderer's master-key to sleeping hearts,—
The orphan-maker—widower of brides;—
The tyrant's strength—the cruel pirate's law,—
The traitor's passport to his sovereign's throne,—
The mighty desolator,—that contains,
In this brief bar of steel, more woe to the earth
Than lightning, earthquake, yellow pestilence,
Or the wild fury of the all-swallowing sea!

CETHEGUS.
A legion should be posted on the hill.

CATILINE.
Secure the valley. Here we camp to-night.
[Cethegus and Valerius go out.
The dew falls heavy; and the rising wind
Moans through the tree-tops like day's funeral song.
Would it were mine!—'Tis happier to be dead,
Than, being what I was, be what I am.
But I am rebel, and must stand to it!—
The dead man's pillow is not scared with dreams;
His day is haunted by no sadder sights
Of visages, grown desperate in his cause;
His fever's cold; he has no heart-ache now;
Has no ambition!
[Aurelia is seen in the tent.
How fares my noble dame?

AURELIA.
Well, Catiline,—
And yet—not well. You saw the day go down?

CATILINE.
Like all that went before.

AURELIA.
I thought the sun
Look'd like a warrior dying on the field,—
That those red gushes of the stormy west
Streak'd all with streams of gore!

CATILINE.
Come forth into the air! For thoughts like those
Are medicined best by nature. (She comes.)
Stand awhile.

AURELIA.
This sky's Ionian, not of Italy.

CATILINE.
Night's galley's launch'd,—her cloudy sails are up,—
Yon stars the new-lit lamps upon her prow,—
These perfumed gusts, the breezes that swell out
Her cloudy sails;—and those small, whisper'd sounds,
Thus dying sweet,—the airy surges' swells,
That break before her slow and dusky stem.

AURELIA.
'Twas on a night like this I sail'd by Crete,
When all the waves were lull'd with silver sounds,
And all the mountains moonlike with pale fires
Of Cybele's altars. (A chorus is heard.)
Hark!

CATILINE
(smiling).
Those are our minstrels.—'Tis thus soldiers hail
The dark and frowning goddess of the night,
To guard their pillows from all evil dreams;
For in their rudeness still lives ceremony.
And well may they commend themselves to Heaven,
[Despondingly.
Who, flung to sleep in danger's iron grasp,
May never welcome in another morn.

AURELIA
(with impatience).
When do we march for Rome?

CATILINE.
You shall be safe!
All is provided for. A troop to-night
Will see you through Etruria.

AURELIA.
Go!—to-night!
Abandon you in your extremity!
Am I your slave, Patrician? I have stood
Your equal from the first;—have never turn'd
From sorrow, toil, or danger, by your side:
For I was Marius' daughter, and your wife!

CATILINE.
Be wise! The time is short. Go, Roman wife!
A rebel's fortunes are upon my head!
Our home must be the hill-tops and wild caves,—
Our canopy the forest's dripping boughs,—
Our meal the berries, roots, and all strange food,
That famine wrings from the step-mother earth,—
Our rusty swords must be our health, wealth, hope,—
Our life be battle, flight, and stratagem,—
Till all is buried in a bloody grave!

AURELIA.
Misfortune is a fire that melts weak hearts,—
But makes the firmer fire.—Here will I die!

CATILINE.
I have had warnings.—In my last night's sleep,
I thought I saw myself, and you, and all
Flung in one general tomb!

AURELIA.
A dream! no more.
An undigested grape will do as much.—
It was the battle,—'twas the day's turmoil
That left its heavy traces on your brain.

CATILINE.
Perhaps so;—for, in truth, I've been, of late,
Strangely beset, and sunk into the prey
Of midnight hauntings;—not a passing wind—
A cloud—the shadow of a shaken bush—
But makes its mark upon my broken mind.
My sleep has grown a round of horrid things,
Terrors and tortures, that the waking sense
Quivers to think of.—Sometimes I am hurl'd
From mountain tops, or hung, by failing hands,
To precipices, fathomless as hell;—
Sometimes, engulf'd in the outrageous sea,
And down its depths sent strangling,—then flung loose
As many leagues aloft, above the moon,
To freeze along the deserts of the sky;—
Sometimes, in hot encounter with the foe,
I feel a sudden javelin in my heart,
And then I'm crush'd by heaps of dying men,
And hear the battle turning o'er my head,
And, fainting, strive to shout;—then, in this death,
See spirits—and plunge downwards,—till I wake,
Madden'd and blinded, thinking all around
A remnant of my torturers;—and thus, night
Is lost to me,—and sorrow's comfort, sleep,
Is made my agony.
[Cecina enters, pale and wounded: Catiline suddenly turns.
What brings that spectre here? Vanish, or speak!

CECINA.
My lord, I am—Cecina!

CATILINE.
Mighty Jove!
What mist was on my eyes?—He bleeds to death!—
Within there!

[Calls.
CECINA.
By and by,—I bear ill news.

CATILINE.
Tell it at once: if we had hearts to break
By piteous tales—we had not lived till now.

CECINA.
You are undone!

CATILINE
(fiercely).
I know it,—banish'd,—robb'd,—
A price set on me,—hunted to the grave,—
But yet not fang'd—not dead!

CECINA.
Your friends in Rome—

CATILINE.
Have they been brought to trial? One day more,
And they shall see me at their prison gates,
Laying their sentence on their sentencers.

CECINA.
My lord, your friends, last night, were—sacrificed!

CATILINE.

CECINA.
This hour they lie, each in his cell, a corpse.

CATILINE
(calls aloud).
[To an Officer.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Night. The interior of a Roman fortified Camp. Walls, with Towers and military Engines. A palisadoed great Gate; Troops on either side, with Torches. On the left a group of Standards. On the right a General's Tent. Shouts, and Sounds of Battle.
Hamilcar comes in, speaking to an Officer.
HAMILCAR.
I think those shouts are nigh the westward trench.
The Consul's weakest there. (Officer goes.)
And here I stand,
Leaving to others the bold outward fight,
To lurk behind a wall.—I should have faced
The proudest sword on earth—but Catiline's.—
His eye would drink the spirit of my blood,
And make my scimitar a reed.—Who's here?
[Shouts, “A prisoner!” Cethegus is brought in.
Cethegus taken—alive!

[In surprise.
CETHEGUS.
(to HAMILCAR).
Dog of an African!
Betrayer!—perjurer!—felon! Give me breath!—
Had not my charger fallen, that villain head
Had been upon my spear.

HAMILCAR
(anxiously).
Is Catiline slain?

CETHEGUS.
How dare you name him?

HAMILCAR.
(with haughtiness.)
Is the rebel dead?

CETHEGUS.
Dead or alive, he's glorious! In the rout
That bore him backwards o'er the fatal trench,
I saw him fighting, with a giant's strength,
Cover'd with wounds,—his corslet beaten off,—
His unhelm'd brow mask'd with his spouting blood;—
The battle's soul,—knight, spearman, general, all;—
Shouting to this man,—grasping t'other's robe,—
Slaying a third,—and ever turning back
To charge the cow'd pursuers—

HAMILCAR
(to the Soldiers).
Set him free.
[Cethegus is taken out; shouts and trumpets.
My mind misgives me, or the battle's turn'd!—
Stand to your arms.—What ensign 's in the field?

SOLDIER
(from the Walls).
The Marian Eagle,—and a column comes,
Straight on the Consul's centre. Now, they charge!—
The trench is taken.

HAMILCAR
(hastily).
To the ramparts, all!—
Quick, load the engines,—let the archers shoot,—
Whirl slings,—rain lances,—give them steel i'the teeth;
Fight all, as if, upon his single arm,
Each bore the whole high fortunes of the night.

[Shouts at the Gates. Trumpets.
CATILINE
(without).
Once more!—and put your souls into your blows;
Be iron, like your lances,—fierce as fire,—
Strong as the whirlwind!—Charge!—The word's “Revenge!”

[The Gates are beaten down, and the Works fired; Catiline rushes in unhelmed and wounded; the Troops give way; Hamilcar, after a struggle with himself, bends to the ground; Catiline approaches; he stops before Hamilcar, who strips his bosom.
HAMILCAR.
Strike here, and be revenged!

CATILINE.
Die!

[He lifts his Sword, but turns away; Hamilcar starts on his feet and stabs himself; Catiline stands, gazing at him.
CECINA
(coming in).
Triumph, my general!—For the field's our own.
The Consul's flank is turn'd, and all his line
Are chaff before the wind.

CATILINE
(exclaims).
Onwards!—To Rome!—

[Voices of the Captains, in succession, without:
“Onwards!—Onwards!—Onwards!—”

CATILINE.
[Falling.
[She bends over him.

[He falls suddenly, and dies.