“How knew I—how know I now—that he was thy brother?” was the choking inquiry. “To save thee the cruel agony that thou must feel, knowing this, I could even be moved to tell thee falsely, and say that he was not my brother—but, indeed, some paramour, such as the base and evil thought of thy brother has grafted upon thine; but I may not, thy love is too precious to me at this last moment, even if death were not too terrible to the false speaker. He was, indeed, my Flavius, dear son of a dear mother, best beloved brother, he whom thou did’st play with as a boy, to whom thou gav’st lessons in thy own lovely art; who loved thee, my Cœlius, but too fondly, and only forbore telling thee of his evil plight for fear that thou should’st incur danger from the sharp and angry hostility of Rome. Seek my chamber, and in my cabinet thou wilt find his letters, and the letters of my mother, borne with him in his flight. Nay,—oh! mother, what is this agony?” “Too late! too late! If it be truth thou speakest, Aurelia, it is a truth that cannot save. Death is upon us—I see it in thy face—I feel it in my heart. Oh! would that I could doubt thy story!” “Doubt not—doubt not—believe and take me to thy heart. I fear not death, if thou wilt believe me. My Cœlius, let me come to thee and die upon thy bosom.” “Ah! should’st thou betray me—should’st thou still practice upon me with thy woman art!” “And wherefore? It is death, thou say’st, that is upon us now. What shall I gain, in this hour, by speaking to thee falsely. Thou hast done thy worst. Thou hast doomed me to death, and to the eyes of the confiding future!” She threw her arms around him as she spoke, and sunk, sunk sobbing upon his breast. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “that dreadful picture! I feel, my Aurelia, that thou hast spoken truly—that I have been rash and cruel in my judgments. Thy brother lies before thee, and yonder tomb is prepared for thee. I did not yield without a struggle; and I prepared me for a terrible sacrifice. Upon this bier, habited as I am, I yield myself to death. There is no help—no succor. Yet that picture! Shall the falsehood overcome the truth? Shall that lie survive thy virtues, thy beauty, and thy life! No! my Aurelia, this crime shall be spared at least.” He unwound her arms from about his neck, and strove to rise. She sunk in the same moment at his feet. “Oh, death!” she cried, “thou art, indeed, a god! I feel thee, terrible in thy strength, with an agony never felt before. Leave me not, my Cœlius—forgive—and leave me not!” “I lose thee, Aurelia! Where—” “Here! before the couch—I faint—ah!” “I would destroy,” he cried, “but cannot! This blindness. Ho! without there! Aruns! It is thy step I hear! Undo, undo—I forgive thee all, if thou wilt but help. Here—hither!”