The glass fell from the hand of Lentulus, the wine untasted; and so deep was the silence of that awful moment, that the gurgling of the liquor as it trickled from the shattered fragments of the crystal goblet, was distinctly audible. There was a silent pause—no word, no motion followed the entrance of the Consul. Face to face, he stood with the deadliest of his foes, Catiline absent. Face to face, he stood with his overthrown and subdued enemy. And yet on his broad tranquil brow there was no frown of hatred; on his calm lip there there was no curl of gratified resentment, of high triumph. Raising his hand, with a slow but very solemn gesture, he uttered in his deep harmonious accents, accents which at that moment spoke in almost an unnatural cadence, this one word— "Come." And calm, and proud, as the Consul, the degraded Senator, the fallen Consul replied, with a question, "To death, Consul?" "Come!" "Give me my toga, Phormio." And robing himself, with an air as quiet and an expression as unconcerned as if he had been setting forth to a banquet, the proud Epicurean gazed with a calmer eye upon the Consul, than that good man could fix upon his victim. "This signet to Sempronia—that sword to—no! no!—this purse to thyself, Phormio! Consul, precede. I follow." And the step of the convicted Traitor, as he descended from the portico of that mansion, for the last time, was firmer, statelier, prouder, than that of his conductor. The streets were thronged—the windows crowded—the housetops heaped—with glaring mute spectators. Some twenty knights, no more, unarmed, with the exception of their swords, composed the Consul’s escort. Lentulus knew them, man by man, had drunk with them, played with them, lent money to them, borrowed of them. He looked upon them. They were the handful leading him to death! What made them break the ties which bound them to their brother noble? What made them forget mutual pleasures enjoyed, mutual perils incurred, mutual benefits accepted? They were the nobles, true to their order. He looked upon the thronged streets—upon the crowded windows—upon the heaped housetops, he saw myriads, myriads who had fed on his bounty, encouraged his infamy, hoped from his atrocity, urged him to his crime, myriads who now frowned upon him—cursed him—howled at him—or—more cowardly—were silent. Myriads, who might have saved him, and did not. Wherefore? They were the people, false to their leader. He looked from the handful to the myriad—and shook himself, as a lion in his wrath; and stamped the dust from his sandals. Cicero saw the movement, and read its meaning. He met the glance, not humiliated, but prouder for the mob’s reprobation; and said, what he would not have said had the glance been conscious— "Thou seest!—Hearest!" "The voice of the People!" answered the traitor with a bitter sneer. "The voice of God!" replied the Consul, looking upward.