"Was!" replied the poor girl, with clasped hands and streaming eyes—"then he is no longer?"
"I do not know, but fear it," said the stout soldier; "He had vowed himself to slay Catiline with his own hands. Such vows are not easy, Julia, nor safe of performance."
"And Catiline?" asked Julia,—"the parricide—the monster?"
"Has not survived the strife. None of the traitors have survived it," replied Petreius. "But how he fell, or where, as yet we know not."
"Paullus hath slain him! my own, my noble Paullus."
"I think so, Julia," answered the general.
"I know it," she said slowly—"but what availeth that to me—to me who had rather hear one accent of his noble voice, meet one glance of his glorious eye—alas! alas! my Paullus! my Lord! my Life! But I will not survive him!"
"Hold, Julia, hold! I would not nurse you to false hopes, but he may yet be living; many are wounded doubtless, who shall be saved to-morrow—"
"To-morrow?" she exclaimed, a gleam of hope bursting upon her soul, like the dayspring. "Why not to-night?—Petreius, I say, why not to-night?"
"It is impossible. The men are all worn out with wounds and weariness, and must have daylight to the task. Dear girl, it is impossible."