“Speak not, woman! See you not that we are within the shadow of the tomb?”
“Let us not approach—let us go hence!” she exclaimed entreatingly, with increasing agitation.
“Ay, shrink’st thou!” he answered; “well thou may’st. The fathers of the Pomponii, for two thousand years, are now floating around us on their sightless wings. They wonder that a Roman woman should draw nigh to the dwellings of our ancient Lucumones.”
“A Roman woman!” she exclaimed reproachfully. “My Cœlius, wherefore this?”
“Art thou not?”
“I am thy wife.”
“Art sure of that?”
“As the gods live and look upon us, I am thine, this hour and forever!”
“May the gods judge thee, woman,” he responded slowly, as he paused at the gate of the mausoleum, and fixed his eyes intently upon her. Hers were raised to heaven, with her uplifted hands. She did not weep, and her grief was still mixed with a fearful agitation.
“Let us now return, my Cœlius!”