He went to die, like his brother democrats of France, with the madness of Atheism in his heart, the mirth of Perdition on his tongue. They two, the Convict and the Consul, ascended a little, two or three steps, to the left, and entered a large apartment, paved, walled, and roofed with stone; but in the centre of the floor there was a small round aperture. There were a dozen persons in that guard-room, four of whom were his fellow-traitors—Gabinius, Statilius, Cæparius, and Cethegus—two prætors, four legionaries, and two Moorish slaves composed the group, until with the Triumvirs, and his twelve lictors, Cicero entered. "Ha! my Cæparius!" exclaimed Lentulus, who had not seen him since the morning of his arrest. "We have met again. But I slept my sleep out. Thou might’st as well have slept too; for we are both met here"— "To die! to die! Great Gods! to die!" cried Cæparius utterly overcome, and almost fainting with despair. "Great Gods indeed!" replied Lentulus with his accustomed half-sardonic, half-indolent sneer. "They must be great, indeed, to let such a puppet as that," and he pointed to Cicero, as he spoke, "do as he will with us. To die! to die! Tush—what is that but to sleep? to sleep without the trouble of awaking, or the annoyance of to-morrow? What sayest thou, my Cethegus?" "That thou art a sluggard, a fool, and a coward; curses! curses! curses upon thee!" And he made an effort to rush against his comrade, as if to strike him; and, when the guards seized him and dragged him back, he shook his fist at Cicero, and gnashed his teeth, and howling out, "Thou too! thou too shalt die proscribed, and thy country’s foe!" by a sudden effort cast off the men who held him, and crying, "Slaves and dastards, see how a Roman noble dies," rushed, with his head down, at the solid wall, as a buffalo rushes blindly against an elephant. He fell as if he were dead, the blood gushing from eyes, nose, and mouth, and lay senseless. Lentulus thought he was killed, gazed on him for a moment tranquilly, and then said with a quiet laugh— "He was a fool always—a rash fool!" Then turning to Cicero, he added—"By Hercules! this is slow work. I am exceeding hungry, and somewhat dry; and, as I fancy I shall eat nothing more to-day, nor drink, I would fain go to sleep." "Would’st thou drink, Lentulus?" asked one of the Triumvirs. "Would I not, had I wine?" "Bring wine," said the magistrate to one of the Moorish slaves; who went out and returned in an instant with a large brazen platter supporting several goblets. Lentulus seized one quickly, and swallowed it at a mouthful—there is a hot thirst in that last excitement—but as the flavor reached his palate, when the roughness of the harsh draught had passed away, he flung the cup down scornfully and said, "Finish it! Take this filthy taste from my lips! Let me rest!"