"Call her not woman! By the Gods that protect purity! call her not woman! Did she not prompt the wretch to poison his own son! Oh! call her anything but woman! But what—what—in the name of all that is good or holy, can have brought you to know that awful being’s daughter?" "First, Julia, you must promise me never, to mortal ears, to reveal what I now disclose to you." "Have you forgotten, Paullus, that I am yet but a young maiden, and that I have a mother?" "Hortensia!" exclaimed the youth, starting back, aghast; for he felt that from her clear eye and powerful judgment nothing could be concealed, and that her iron will would yield in nothing to a woman’s tenderness, a woman’s mercy. "Hortensia," replied the girl gently, "the best, the wisest, and the tenderest of mothers." "True? she is all that you say—more than all! But she is resolute, withal, as iron; and stern, and cold, and unforgiving in her anger!" "And do you need so much forgiveness, Paullus?" "More, I fear, than my Julia’s love will grant me." "I think, my Paullus, you do not know the measure of a girl’s honest love. But may I tell Hortensia? If not, you have said enough. What is not fitting for a girl to speak to her own mother, it is not fitting that she should hear at all—least of all from a man, and that man—her lover!" "It is not that, my Julia. But what I have to say contains many lives—mine among others! contains Rome’s safety, nay! existence! One whisper breathed abroad, or lisped in a slave’s hearing, were the World’s ruin. But be it as you will—as you think best yourself and wisest. If you will, tell Hortensia." "I shall tell her, Paullus. I tell her everything. Since I could babble my first words, I never had a secret from her!" "Be it so, sweet one. Now I implore you, hear me to the end, before you judge me, and then judge mercifully, as the Gods are merciful, and mortals prone to error." "And will you tell me the whole truth?" "The whole." "Say on, then. I will hear you to the end; and your guilt must be great, Paullus, if you require a more partial arbitress." It was a trying and painful task, that was forced upon him, yet he went through it nobly. At every word the difficulties grew upon him. At every word the temptation, to swerve from the truth, increased. At every word the dread of losing her, the agony of apprehension, the dull cold sense of despair, waxed heavier, and more stunning. The longer he spoke, the more certain he felt that by his own words he was destroying his own hope; yet he manned his heart stoutly, resisted the foul tempter, and, firm in the integrity of his present purpose, laid bare the secrets of his soul.