"Who I may be, you will learn from the bearer. All things go bravely. The ambassadors have lost their suit, but we have won ours. They return home to-morrow, by the Flaminian way, one Titus of Crotona guiding them, who shall explain to you our thoughts and hopes—but, of this doubt not, thoughts shall be deeds, and hopes success, before this hour to-morrow." "By all the Gods!" cried Catiline with a shout of joy, "Ere this time all is won! Cicero, Cicero, I have triumphed, and thou, mine enemy, art nothing;" then turning to the messenger, he asked, "When didst leave Rome, with these joyous tidings? when sawest the noble Lentulus?" "On the fourth(13) day before the nones, at sunset." "And we are now in the sixth(14) before the Ides. Thou hast loitered on the way, Sirrah." "I was compelled to quit my road, Catiline, and to lie hid four days among the hills to avoid a troop of horse which pursued me, seeing that I was armed; an advanced guard, I think, of Antonius’ army." "Thou didst well. Get thee gone, and bid them supply thy wants. Eat, drink, and sleep—we march upon Rome at day-break to-morrow." The man left the apartment, and looking to Manlius with a flushed cheek and exulting aspect, Catiline exclaimed, "Murmuring for pleasure, and for women, are they? Tell them, good friend, they shall have all the gold of Rome for their pleasure, and all its patrician dames for their women. Stir up their souls, my Manlius, kindle their blood with it matters not what fire! See to it, my good comrade, I am aweary, and will lay me down, I can sleep after these good tidings." But it was not destined that he should sleep so soon. He had thrown himself again into a chair, and filled himself a brimming goblet of the rich wine, when he repeated to himself in a half musing tone— "Murmuring for their women? ha!—By Venus! I cannot blame the knaves. It is dull work enough without the darlings. By Hercules! I would Aurelia were here; or that jade Lucia! Pestilent handsome was she, and then so furious and so fiery! By the Gods! were she here, I would bestow one caress on her at the least, before she died, as die she shall, in torture by my hand! Curses on her, she has thwarted, defied, foiled me! By every fiend and Fury! ill shall she perish, were she ten times my daughter!" Again there was a bustle without the entrance of the pavilion, and again Chærea introduced a messenger. It was Niger, one of the swordsmith’s men. Catiline recognized him in an instant. "Ha! Niger, my good lad, from Caius Crispus, ha?"— "From Caius Crispus, praying succor, and that swift, lest it be too late." "Succor against whom? succor where, and wherefore?"