All at once, a dismal silence prevailed; sadness was painted in every countenance, and no one durst venture to raise his tear-dewed eyes towards Cato. This tender friend perceived the effect his rigid philosophy had produced; he changed the subject, and, to drive away melancholy ideas, he spoke of those who had just left them, showing the anxious inquietude he experienced respecting them. After the repast, he walked about for some time, according to his usual custom, and then retired to his apartment. There he spoke more affectionately than he had before done, to his son and his friends, which revived and strengthened the idea they had conceived of his determination. When he went into his inner chamber, he threw himself upon the bed, and meditated for a long time upon Plato’s dialogue on the immortality of the soul. He had already read a considerable part of it, when, turning his eyes upon his bolster, he perceived that his sword was not in its customary place; his son had had it removed whilst they were at supper. Cato called to a slave, and asked him what had become of his sword. The slave made no answer, and his master resumed his reading. A few minutes after; he made the same question, without any eagerness or warmth, but like a man who has no particular desire. At last, when he had finished his reading, seeing that nobody seemed disposed to obey him, he called all his slaves, one after the other, and in the tone of a master, said that he insisted upon having his sword; he even went so far as to give one of them so violent a blow, that he made his hand bloody. “What!” cried he, indignantly, “what! are my son and my people conspiring to deliver me up to my enemy, without arms and without defence?” At this moment, his son, coming into the apartment with his friends, burst into tears. He threw himself at his feet, he embraced his knees, and conjured him to depart from his purpose. Cato, angry at seeing his son in such an attitude of supplication, and darting at him glances denoting displeasure,--“Since when,” cried he, “am I fallen into imbecility, to make it necessary for my son to be my curator? I am treated like an insane man; I am not allowed to dispose of my own person; I am to be disarmed too! Brave and generous son, why do you not chain up your father till Cæsar arrives, so that that enemy of his country may find him destitute of defence? Do I stand in need of a sword, if I wished to deprive myself of life? Could I not hold my breath? could I not dash my head against the wall? If a man really wish for death, there are a thousand ways of obtaining it.” A young slave then brought him back his sword. Cato drew it, examined it, and finding that the point was quite straight and sharp, he exclaimed,--“Now, then, I am my own master.” He laid down his sword, took up his book, and read it through again from beginning to end; he then fell into so profound a sleep, that the anxious friends who listened at the door heard him snore; but the