"Speak!" thundered Catiline; "speak! art thou not mine—mine soul and body—sworn to be mine forever?"
Alas! the fatal oath, sworn in the heat of passion, flashed on his soul, and he answered humbly, and in a faint low voice, how different from his wonted tones of high and manly confidence—
"I am sworn, Catiline!"
"See then that thou be not forsworn. Little thou [pg 110] dream'st yet, unto what thou art sworn, or unto whom; but know this, that hell itself, with all its furies, would fall short of the tortures that await the traitor!"
"I am, at least, no traitor!"
"No! traitor! Ha!" cried Catiline, "is it an honest deed to creep into the bosom of a daughter of the house which entertained thee as a friend!—No! Traitor—ha! ha! ha! thou shalt ere long learn better—ha! ha! ha!"
And he laughed with the fearful sneering mirth, which was never excited in his breast, but by things perilous and terrible and hateful. In a moment, however, he repressed his merriment, and added—
"Give me that poniard thou didst wear this morning. It is mine."
"Thine!" cried the unhappy youth, starting back, as if he had received a blow; "thine, Catiline!"
"Aye!" he replied, in a hoarse voice, looking into the very eyes of Paul. "I am the slayer of the slave, and regret only that I slew him without torture. Know you whose slave he was, by any chance?"