Nothing was now to be seen within the walls but consternation and despair. The temples of the gods were filled with suppliants; the plebeians themselves pressed the senate to make peace with the terrible Coriolanus. Meantime the enemy advanced to the very gates of the city, and at length the senate agreed to send five men, chiefs among the patricians, to turn away the anger of their countryman. He received them with the utmost sternness; said that he was now general of the Volscians, and must do what was best for his new friends; that if they wished for peace they must restore all the lands and places that had been taken from the Volscians, and must admit these people to an equal league, and put them on an equal footing with the Latins. The deputies could not accept these terms, so they returned to Rome. The senate sent them back, to ask for milder terms; but the haughty exile would not suffer them to enter his camp. Then went forth another deputation, graver and more solemn than the former--the pontiffs, flamens, and augurs, all attired in their priestly robes, who besought him, by all that he held sacred, by the respect he owed to his country’s gods, to give them assurance of peace and safety. He treated them with grave respect, but sent them away without relaxing any of his demands. It seemed as if the glory of Rome were departing, as if the crown were about to be transferred to the cities of the Volscians. But not so was it destined to be. It chanced that as all the women were weeping and praying in the temples, the thought arose among them that they might effect what patricians and priests had alike failed to do. It was Valeria, the sister of the great Valerius Publicola, who first started the thought, and she prevailed on Volumnia, the stern mother of the exile, to accompany the mournful train. With them also went Virgilia, his wife, leading her two boys by the hand, and a crowd of other women. Coriolanus beheld them from afar, as he was sitting on a raised seat among the Volscian chiefs, and resolved to send back them also with a denial. But when they came near, and he saw his mother at the head of the sad procession, he sprang from his seat, and was about to kiss her. But she drew back with all the loftiness of a Roman matron, and said: “Art thou Caius Marcius, and am I thy mother? or art thou the general of the Volscian foe, and I a prisoner in his camp? Before thou kissest me, answer me that question.” Caius stood silent, and his mother went on: “Shall it be said that it is to me, to me alone, that Rome owes her conqueror and oppressor? Had I never been a mother, my country had still been free. But I am too old to feel this misery long. Look to thy wife and little ones; thou art enslaving thy country, and with it thou enslavest them.” The fierce Roman’s heart sank before the indignant words of her whom he had feared and respected from his childhood; and when his wife and children hanging about him added