chancing to turn his eyes
upwards, he perceived that his sword had been removed. His son had
removed it while he sat at dinner. He called a slave and asked, "Who has
taken my sword?" As the man said nothing, he resumed his book; but in
the course of a few minutes, finding that search was not being made, he
asked for the sword again. Another interval followed; and still it was
not forthcoming. His anger was now roused. He vehemently reproached the
slaves, and even struck one of them with his fist, which he injured by
the blow. "My son and my slaves," he said, "are betraying me to the
enemy." He would listen to no entreaties, "Am I a madman," he said,
"that I am stripped of my arms? Are you going to bind my hands and give
me up to Caesar? As for the sword I can do without it; I need but hold
my breath or dash my head against the wall. It is idle to think that you
can keep a man of my years alive against his will." It was felt to be
impossible to persist in the face of this determination, and a young
slave-boy brought back the sword. Cato felt the weapon, and finding that
the blade was straight and the edge perfect, said, "Now I am my own
master." He then read the Phaedo again from beginning to end, and
afterwards fell into so profound a sleep that persons standing outside
the chamber heard his breathing. About midnight he sent for his
physician and one of his freedmen. The freedman was commissioned to
inquire whether his friends had set sail. The physician he asked to bind
up his wounded hand, a request which his attendants heard with delight,
as it seemed to indicate a resolve to live. He again sent to inquire
about his friends and expressed his regret at the rough weather which
they seemed likely to have. The birds were now beginning to twitter at
the approach of dawn, and he fell into a short sleep. The freedman now
returned with news that the harbor was quiet. When he found himself
again alone, he stabbed himself with the sword, but the blow, dealt as
it was by the wounded hand, was not fatal. He fell fainting on the
couch, knocking down a counting board which stood near, and groaning.
His son with others rushed into the chamber, and the physician, finding
that the wound was not mortal, proceeded to bind it up. Cato, recovering
his consciousness, thrust the attendants aside, and tearing open the
wound, expired.

If the end of Cato's life was its noblest part it is still more true
that the fame of Brutus rests on one