“Ah!” he exclaimed, “that dreadful picture! I feel, my Aurelia, that thou hast spoken truly—that I have been rash and cruel in my judgments. Thy brother lies before thee, and yonder tomb is prepared for thee. I did not yield without a struggle; and I prepared me for a terrible sacrifice. Upon this bier, habited as I am, I yield myself to death. There is no help—no succor. Yet that picture! Shall the falsehood overcome the truth? Shall that lie survive thy virtues, thy beauty, and thy life! No! my Aurelia, this crime shall be spared at least.”
He unwound her arms from about his neck, and strove to rise. She sunk in the same moment at his feet. “Oh, death!” she cried, “thou art, indeed, a god! I feel thee, terrible in thy strength, with an agony never felt before. Leave me not, my Cœlius—forgive—and leave me not!”
“I lose thee, Aurelia! Where—”
“Here! before the couch—I faint—ah!”
“I would destroy,” he cried, “but cannot! This blindness. Ho! without there! Aruns! It is thy step I hear! Undo, undo—I forgive thee all, if thou wilt but help. Here—hither!”
The acute senses of the dying man had, indeed, heard footsteps without. They were those of the perfidious brother. But, at the call from within, he retreated hastily. There was no answer—there was no help. But there was still some consciousness. Death was not yet triumphant. There was a pang yet to be felt—and a pleasure. It was still in the power of the dying man to lift to his embrace his innocent victim. A moment’s return of consciousness enabled her to feel his embrace, his warm tears upon her cheek, and to hear his words of entreaty and tenderness imploring forgiveness. And speech was vouchsafed her to accord it.
“I forgive thee, my Cœlius—I forgive thee, and bless thee, and love thee to the last. I know that thou would’st never do me hurt of thy own will; I know that thou wert deceived to this—yet how, oh, how, when my head lay upon thy breast at night, and I slept in peace, could’st thou think that I should do thee wrong!”
“Why,” murmured the miserable man, “why, oh, why?”
“Had I but told thee, and trusted in thee, my Cœlius?”
“Why did’st thou not?”