And yet this is the sweet-scented assassin who prates of "honor," and is sometimes known as "the noblest Roman of them all!"
Portia, the wife of Brutus, felt a strange alarm at his recent conduct, and Calphurnia, the wife of Cæsar, implored him not to attend the session of the senate, reminding him of the soothsayer's warning—"Beware the ides of March."
Yet, Cæsar threw off all fear and suspicion and said:
"What can be avoided,
Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods?
Yet Cæsar shall go forth, for these predictions
Are to the world in general, not to Cæsar!
Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once!"
The hour of assassination has arrived, and Cæsar, seated in the chair of state, says:
"What is now amiss
That Cæsar and his senate must redress?"
Senator Metellus, one of the chief conspirators, throws himself at the feet of Cæsar and implores pardon for his traitor brother.
Cæsar says:
"Be not fond,
To think that Cæsar bears such rebel blood,
That will be thawed from the true quality,
With that which meeteth fools; I mean, sweet words,
Low, crooked courtesies, and base, spaniel fawning;
Thy brother by decree is banished;
If thou dost bend, and pray and fawn for him,
I spurn thee like a cur out of my way.
Know, Cæsar doth not wrong; nor without cause
Will he be satisfied!
But I am constant as the northern star,
Of whose true fixed and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament!"
The conspirators at this moment crowd around the doomed hero with pretended petitions—and, instanter, Casca stabs Cæsar in the neck, while several other murdering senators stab him through the body, and last Marcus Brutus plunges a dagger in the heart of his benefactor and father, when with glaring eyes and dying breath, the noble Cæsar exclaims: