“Deprived you of hopes, my Cœlius,” said the wife, still lingering, and in mortal terror. “Even so!” “And, wherefore, O, my husband, wherefore?” “Speak not, woman! See you not that we are within the shadow of the tomb?” “Let us not approach—let us go hence!” she exclaimed entreatingly, with increasing agitation. “Ay, shrink’st thou!” he answered; “well thou may’st. The fathers of the Pomponii, for two thousand years, are now floating around us on their sightless wings. They wonder that a Roman woman should draw nigh to the dwellings of our ancient Lucumones.” “A Roman woman!” she exclaimed reproachfully. “My Cœlius, wherefore this?” “Art thou not?” “I am thy wife.” “Art sure of that?” “As the gods live and look upon us, I am thine, this hour and forever!” “May the gods judge thee, woman,” he responded slowly, as he paused at the gate of the mausoleum, and fixed his eyes intently upon her. Hers were raised to heaven, with her uplifted hands. She did not weep, and her grief was still mixed with a fearful agitation. “Let us now return, my Cœlius!” “What, wilt thou not behold the picture?” “Not now—at another season. I could not look upon it now!” “Alas! woman, but this cannot be. Thou must behold it now or never. Hope not to escape. Enter! I have a tale to tell thee, and a sight to show thee within, which thou canst not hear or see hereafter. Enter!” As he spoke, he applied the key to the stone leaf, and the door slowly revolved upon the massy pivots. She turned and would have fled, but he grasped her by the wrist, and moved toward the entrance. She carried her freed hand to her forehead—parted the hair from her eyes, and raised them pleadingly to heaven. Resistance she saw was vain. Her secret was discovered. She prepared to enter, but slowly. “Enter! Dost thou fear now,” cried her husband, “when commanded? Hast thou not, thou, a Roman, ventured already to penetrate these awful walls, given to silence and the dead—and on what mission? Enter, as I bid thee!” CHAPTER VI. _The Chamber of Death—The Catastrophe._ She obeyed him, shuddering and silent. He followed her, closed the entrance, and fastened it within. They were alone among the dead of a thousand years—alone, but not in darkness. The hand of preparation had been there, and cressets were burning upon the walls; their lights, reflected from the numerous shields of bronze within the apartment, shedding a strange and fantastic splendor upon the scene. The eyes of Aurelia rapidly explored the chamber as if in search of some expected object. Those of Cœlius watched them with an expression of scornful triumph, which did not escape her glance. She firmly met his gaze, almost inquiringly, while her hands were involuntarily and convulsively clasped together. “Whom dost thou seek, Aurelia?” “Thou know’st! thou know’st!—where is he? Tell me, my Cœlius, that he is safe, that thou hast sped him hence—that I may bless thee.”