Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.
CHILDE HAROLD.

The battle was at an end; the sun had set; the calm and silvery moon was sailing through the azure skies; as peaceful as though her pure light shone upon sights of happiness alone, and quiet. The army of the commonwealth had returned to their camp victorious, but in sadness, not triumph.

Of the magnificent array, which had marched out that morning from the Praetorian gate, scarce two-thirds had returned at sun-set.

And the missing were the best, the bravest, the most noble of the host; for all the most gallant had fallen dead in that desperate struggle, or had sunk down faint, with wounds and bloodshed, beside the bodies of their conquered foemen.

Of the rebels there was not a remnant left; some had escaped from that dread route; and of that mighty power, which at the close of day was utterly exterminated, it is on record that neither in the combat, while it lasted, nor in the slaughter which followed it, was any free born citizen taken a living captive.

For the numbers engaged on both sides it is probable that never in the annals of the world was there the like carnage; nor is this wonderful, when the nature of the ground, which rendered flight almost impossible to the vanquished, the nature of the weapons, which rendered almost every wound surely mortal, and the nature of the strife, which rendered the men of either party pitiless and desperate, are all taken into consideration.

In long ranks, like grass in the mower's swathes, the rebel warriors lay, with their grim faces, and glazed eyes, set in that terrible expression of ferocity which is always observed on the linéaments of those who have died from wounds inflicted by a stabbing weapon; and under them, or near them, in ghastly piles were heaped, scarce less in number, the corpses of their slaughtered conquerors. So equal was the havoc; so equal the value which the men had set on their own lives, and on those of their enemies.

Never perhaps had there been such, or so signal, a retribution. They who had taken to the sword had perished by the sword, not figuratively but in the literal meaning of the words. Stabbers by trade, they had fallen stabbed, by the hands of those whom they had destined to like massacre.

With the exception of the five chiefs who had already wrestled out their dark spirits, in the Tullianum, slavishly strangled, there was no traitor slain save by the steel blade's edge.

The field of Pistoria was the tribunal, the ruthless sword the judge and executioner, by which to a man the conspirators expiated their atrocious crimes.

No chains, no scaffolds followed that tremendous field. None had survived on whom to wreak the vengeance of the state. Never was victory so complete or final.

But in that victory there was no triumph, no joy, no glory to the victors.

So long, and so desperate had been the battle, so furiously contested the series of single combats into which it was resolved, after the final and decisive charge of the Praetorian cohort, that the shades of the early winter night were already falling over the crimson field, when, weak and shattered, sorrowful and gloomy, the Roman host was recalled by the wailing notes of the brazen trumpets from that tremendous butchery.

The watches were set, as usual, and the watch fires kindled; but no shouts of the exulting soldiers were to be heard hailing their general “Imperator;” no songs of triumph pealed to the skies in honor of the great deeds done, the deathless glory won; no prizes of valor were distributed; no triumph not an oration even was to be hoped for by the victorious leader of that victorious host, which had conquered indeed for the liberties of Rome, but had conquered, not on foreign earth, in no legitimate warfare, against no natural foe, but on the very soil of the republic, at the very gates of Rome, in an unnatural quarrel, against Romans, citizens, and brothers.

The groans of the wounded, the lamentations of friends, the shrieks of women, went up the livelong night from that woful camp. To hear that grievous discord, one would have judged it rather the consequences of defeat than of victory, however sad and bloody.

No words can express the anguish of the ladies, with whom the camp was crowded, as rushing forth to meet the returning legions, they missed the known faces altogether, or met them gashed and pallid, borne home, perhaps to die after long suffering, upon the shields under which they had so boldly striven.

Enquiries were fruitless. None knew the fate of his next neighbor, save in so much as this, that few of those who went down in such a meleè, could be expected ever again to greet the sunrise, or hail the balmy breath of morning.

Averted heads and downcast eyes, were the sole replies that met the wives, the mothers, the betrothed maidens, widowed ere wedded, as with rent garments, and dishevelled hair, and streaming eyes, they rushed into the sorrowful ranks, shrieking, “Where are they,” and were answered only by the short echo, “Where.”

Such was the fate of Julia. No one could tell her aught of her Arvina; until at a late hour of the night, remembering her solitary situation and high birth, and taking a deep interest in her sorrows, Petreius himself visited her, not to instil false hope, but to console if possible her wounded spirit by praises of her lost lover's conduct.

“He fought beside my right hand, Julia, through the whole of that deadly struggle; and none with more valor, or more glory. He led the last bloody onset, and was the first who cut his way through the rebel centre. Julia, you must not weep for him, you must not envy him such glory. Julia, he was a hero.”

“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.”

“I will go forth myself, alone, unaided, I will save him.”

“You must not, Julia.”

“Who shall prevent me? Who dare to part a betrothed maiden from her true lover, true, alas! in death! in death!”

“I will,” replied Petreius firmly. “You know not the perils of such a night as this. The gaunt wolves from the Appennines; the foul and carrion vultures; the plundering disbanded soldiers; the horrid unsexed women, who roam the field of blood more cruel than the famished wolf, more sordid than the loathsome vulture. I will prevent you, Julia. But with the earliest dawn to-morrow I will myself go with you. Fare you well, try to sleep, and hope, hope for the best, poor Julia.”

And with a deep sigh at the futility of his consolation, the noble Roman left the tent, giving strict orders to the peasant girls who had been pressed into her service, and to Arvina's freedmen who were devoted to her, on no account to suffer her to leave the camp that night, and even, if need were, to use force to prevent her.

Meanwhile the frost wind had risen cold and cutting over the field of blood. Its chilly freshness, checking the flow of blood and fanning the brow of many a maimed and gory wretch, awoke him to so much at least of life, as to be conscious of his tortures; and loud groans, and piercing shrieks, and agonizing cries for water might beheard now on all sides, where, before the wind rose, there had been but feeble wailings and half-unconscious lamentations.

Then came a long wild howl from the mountain side, another, and another, and then the snarling fiendish cry of the fell wolf-pack.

Gods! what a scream of horrid terror rose from each helpless sufferer, unanimous, as that accursed sound fell on their palsied ears, and tortured them back into life.

But cries were of no avail, nor prayers, nor struggles, nor even the shouts, and trumpet blasts, and torches of the legionaries from the camp, who hoped thus to scare the bloodthirsty brutes from their living prey, of friend and foe, real comrade and false traitor.

It was all vain, and ere long to the long-drawn howls and fierce snarls of the hungry wolves, battening upon their horrid meal, were added the flapping wings and croaking cries of innumerable night birds flocking to the carnage; and these were blended still with the sharp outcries, and faint murmurs, that told how keener than the mortal sword were the beak and talon, the fang and claw, of the wild beast and the carrion fowl.

Such, conquerors, such a thing is glory!

That frost wind, among others awakened Paullus to new life, and new horrors. Though gashed and weak from loss of blood, none of his wounds were mortal, and yet he felt that, unaided, he must die there, past doubt, even if spared by the rending beak, and lacerating talon.

As he raised himself slowly to a sitting posture, and was feeling about for his sword, which had fallen from his grasp as he fainted, he heard his name called feebly by some one near him.

“Who calls Arvina?” he replied faintly. “I am here.”

“I, Caius Pansa,” answered the voice; it was that of the old legionary horseman, who had predicted so confidently the fall of Catiline by the hand of Paullus. “I feared thou wert dead.”

“We shall both be dead soon, Caius Pansa,” replied the young man. “Hark! to those wolves! It makes my very flesh creep on my bones! They are sweeping this way, too.”

“No! no! cheer up, brave heart,” replied the veteran. “We will not die this bout. By Hercules! only crawl to me, thou. My thigh is broken, and I cannot stir. I have wine here; a warming draught, in a good leather bottle. Trust to old Caius for campaigning! I have life enough in me to beat off these howling furies. Come, Paullus; come, brave youth. We will share the wine! You shall not die this time. I saw you kill that dog I knew that you would kill him. Courage, I say, crawl hitherward.”

Cheered by the friendly voice, the wounded youth crept feebly and with sore anguish to the old trooper's side, and shared his generously proffered cup; and, animated by the draught, and deriving fresh courage from his praises, endured the horrors of that awful night, until the day breaking in the east scared the foul beasts and night birds to their obscene haunts in the mountain peaks and caverns.

Many times the gory wings had flapped nigh to them, and the fierce wolf-howls had come within ten feet of where they sat, half recumbent, propped on a pile of dead, but still their united voices and the defensive show which they assumed drove off the savages, and now daylight and new hopes dawned together, and rescue was at hand and certain.

Already the Roman trumpets were heard sounding, and the shouts of the soldiers, as they discerned some friend living, or some leader of the rebels dead or dying, came swelling to their ears, laden with rapture, on the fresh morning air.

At this moment, some groans broke out, so terribly acute and bitter, from a heap of gory carcasses hard by Arvina and the old trooper, that after calling several times in vain to enquire who was there, the veteran said,

“It were pity, Paullus, that after living out such a meleè as this, and such a night as the last, any poor fellow should die now. Cannot you crawl to him with the flask, and moisten his lips; try, my Paullus.”

“I will try, Caius, but I am stiffer than I was, and my hurts shoot terribly, but I will try.”

And with the word, holding the leathern bottle in his teeth, he crawled painfully and wearily toward the spot whence the sounds proceeded; but ere he reached it, creeping over the dead, he came suddenly on what seemed a corpse so hideous, and so truculently savage, so horribly distorted in the death pang, that involuntarily he paused to gaze upon it.

It was Catiline, although at first he recognised him not, so frightfully was his face altered, his nether lip literally gnawed half-through, by his own teeth in the death agony, and his other features lacerated by the beak and talons of some half-gorged vulture.

But, while he gazed, the heavy lids rose, and the glazed eyes stared upon him in ghastly recognition; Paullus knew him at the same moment, and started back a little, drawing a deep breath through his set teeth, and murmuring, “Ah! Catiline!”

The dying traitor's lips were convulsed by a fearful sardonic grin, and he strove hard to speak, but the words rattled in his throat inarticulate, and a sharp ruckling groan was the only sound that he uttered.

But with a mighty effort he writhed himself up from the ground, and drove his sword, which he still clasped in his convulsed fingers, by a last desperate exertion through Paullus' massive corslet, and deep into his bosom.

With a sharp cry the youth fell prone, and after two or three struggles to arise, lay on his face motionless, and senseless.

Catiline dropped back with a fiendish grin, and eyes rolling in a strange mixed expression of agony and triumph; while old Pansa, after crying, twice or thrice, “Paullus, ho! noble Paullus!” exclaimed mournfully, “Alas! He is dead! He is dead! And I it is who have slain him.”

Within half an hour, Petreius and his guards with several mounted officers, and a lady upon a white palfrey, came riding slowly toward the fatal spot, pausing from time to time to examine every pile of carcasses, and after causing his men to dismount and turn over the bodies, in the hope of finding him they sought.

Their search had hitherto been fruitless, and unrewarded even by the discovery of any wounded friends or comrades, for this was the place in which the battle had been most desperately contested, and few had fallen here but to die almost on the instant.

But now a weak voice was heard calling to the general.

“Petreius, he is here! here! He is here, noble Petreius!”

“The immortal Gods be praised!” cried Julia, interpreting the casual words at once to signify Arvina, and giving her palfrey the rein, she gallopped to the spot, followed by Petreius shaking his head gloomily; for he was not so deceived.

“Who? who is here?” exclaimed the general. “Ha! my stout Pansa, right glad am I to find you living. See to him, quickly, Postumus, and Capito. But whom do you mean? Who is here?”

“Catiline! Paullus Arvina slew him!

“By all the Gods!” exclaimed Petreius, leaping down from his horse and gazing at the hideous mutilated carcase, still breathing a little, and retaining in its face that ferocity of soul which had distinguished it while living!

But swifter yet than he, Julia sprang from her saddle, and rushed heedless and unconscious, through pools of blood, ancle deep, treading on human corpses, in her wild haste, and cast herself down on the well known armor, the casque crested and the cloak embroidered by her own delicate hands, which could alone be distinguished of her lover's prostrate form.

“Aye! me! aye me! dead! dead! my own Arvina!”

“Alas! alas! cried Petreius, “Raise her up; raise them both, this is most lamentable!

“Never heed me!” said the veteran Pansa, eagerly, to the officers who were busy raising him from the ground. “Help the poor girl! Help the brave youth! He may be living yet, though I fear me not. It is my fault, alas! that he is not living now!”

“Thy fault, old Pansa, how can that be, my friend? who slew him?”

Once more the rigid features of Catiline relaxed into a horrid smile, the glaring eyes again opened, and starting half upright he shook his hand aloft, and with a frightful effort, half laugh, half groan, half words articulate, sneered fiendishly I! I. Ha! ha! I did. Ha! ha! ha! ha!

But at the same instant there was a joyous cry from the officers who had lifted Paullus, and a rapturous shriek from Julia.

“He is not dead!”

“His hurts are not mortal, lady, it is but loss of blood,”

“He lives! he lives!

“Curses! cur cur ha! ha! this this is Hades!”

The fierce sneer died from the lips, a look of horror glared from the savage eyes, the jaw gibbered and fell, a quick spasm shook the strong frame, and in a paroxysm of frustrated spite, and disappointed fury, the dark spirit, which had never spared or pitied, went to its everlasting home.

It was the dead of winter, when the flame of rebellion was thus quenched in rebel blood; Cicero still was consul. But it was blithesome springtide, and the great orator had long since sworn THAT HE HAD SAVED HIS COUNTRY, among the acclamations of a people for once grateful; had long since retired into the calm serenity of private life and literary leisure, when Paullus was sufficiently recovered from his wounds to receive the thanks of his friend and benefactor; to receive in the presence of the good and great Consular his best reward in the hand of his sweet Julia. It was balmy Italian June, and all in Rome was peace and prosperity, most suitable to the delicious season, when on the sacred day of Venus,(16) clad in her snowwhite bridal robe, with its purple ribands and fringes, her blushing face concealed by the saffron-colored nuptial veil, the lovely girl was borne, a willing bride, over the threshold of her noble husband's mansion, amid the merry blaze of waxen torches, and the soft swell of hymeneal music, and the congratulations of such a train of consuls, consulars, senators and patricians, as rarely had been seen collected at any private festival. In a clear voice, though soft and gentle, she addressed Paullus with the solemn formula

“Where thou art Caius, I am Caia.”

Thenceforth their trials ceased; their happiness began; and thenceforth, they two were one for ever. And, for years afterward, when Roman maidens called blessings down upon a kindred bride, they had no fairer fate to wish her than to be happy as Arvina's Julia.

And how should any man be blessed, in this transitory life, if not by the love of such a girl as Julia, the friendship of such a man as Cicero, the fame of such a deed, as the death of THE ROMAN TRAITOR.