“I cannot believe thee, woman. It were a mortal agony, far beyond what I feel in the conviction of thy guilt, were I to yield faith to thy story. It is thy paramour whom I have slain, and who sleeps in that tomb. His portrait and his judgment are before thee, and now—look on thine own!”
The picture, fully displayed, showed to the wretched woman her own person, in similar custody with him who was her supposed paramour. The terrible felicity of the execution struck her to the soul. It was a picture to live as a work of art, and to this she was not insensible. She clasped her hands before it, and exclaimed,
“Oh! my Cœlius, what a life hast thou given to a lie. Yet may I bear the terrors of such a doom, if he whom thou hast painted there in a fate full of dreadful fellowship with mine, was other than my brother Flavius—he with whom thou did’st love to play, and to whom thou did’st impart the first lessons in the art which he learned to love from thee. Dost hear me, my Cœlius, as my soul lives, this man was none other than my brother.”
“False! false! I will not, dare not believe thee!” he answered in husky accents. His frame was trembling, yet he busied himself in putting on a rich armor, clothing himself in military garb, from head to foot, as if going into action.
“What dost thou, my lord?” demanded Aurelia, curious as she beheld him in this occupation.
“This,” said he, “is the armor in which I fought with Rome when I was made the captive of thy people, and thine. It is fit that I should wear it now, when I am once more going into captivity.”
“My husband, what mean’st thou—of what captivity dost thou speak?”
“The captivity of death! Hear me, Aurelia, dost thou feel nothing at thy heart which tells thee of the coming struggle when the soul shakes off the reluctant flesh, and strives, as it were, for freedom. Is there no chill in thy veins, no sudden pang, as of fire in thy breast. These speak in me. They warn me of death. We are both summoned. But a little while is left us of life.”
“Have mercy, Jove! I feel these pains, this chill, this fire that thou speak’st of.”
“It is death! the goblet which I gave thee, and of which I drank the first and largest draught was drugged with death.”