"Will all be there?"
"All the most faithful; until then, farewell!"
"Farewell."
And they parted; Lentulus hurrying to the Forum, to take his seat on the prætor's chair, and there preside in judgment—fit magistrate!—on men, the guiltiest of whom were pure as the spotless snow, when compared with his own conscious guilt; and Catiline to glide through dark streets, visiting discontented artizans, debauched mechanics, desperate gamblers, scattering dark and ambiguous promises, and stirring up that worthless rabble—who, with all to gain and nothing to lose by civil strife and tumult, abound in all great cities—to violence and thirst of blood.
Three or four hours at least he spent thus; and well satisfied with his progress, delighted by the increasing turbulence of the fierce and irresponsible democracy, and rejoicing in having gained many new and fitting converts to his creed, he returned homeward, ripe for fresh villainy. Chærea met him on the threshold, with his face pale and haggard from excitement.
"Catiline," he exclaimed, "she had gone forth already, before you bade me watch her!"
"She!—Who, slave? who?" and knowing perfectly who was meant, yet hoping, in his desperation, that he heard not aright, he caught the freedman by the throat, and shook him furiously.
"Lucia Orestilla," faltered the trembling menial.
"And has not returned?" thundered the traitor.
"Catiline, no!"