the republic will pass through a whole Odyssey of
strange adventures."

"I believe so; an Odyssey, of which Pompey will be the Polyphemus, and
Cicero the Siren. I would have the state imitate Ulysses: show no
mercy to the former; but contrive, if it can be done, to listen to
the enchanting voice of the other, without being seduced by it to
destruction."

"But whom can your party produce as rivals to these two famous leaders?"

"Time will show. I would hope that there may arise a man, whose genius
to conquer, to conciliate, and to govern, may unite in one cause an
oppressed and divided people;--may do all that Sylla should have done,
and exhibit the magnificent spectacle of a great nation directed by a
great mind."

"And where is such a man to be found?"

"Perhaps where you would least expect to find him. Perhaps he may be
one whose powers have hitherto been concealed in domestic or literary
retirement. Perhaps he may be one, who, while waiting for some adequate
excitement, for some worthy opportunity, squanders on trifles a genius
before which may yet be humbled the sword of Pompey and the gown
of Cicero. Perhaps he may now be disputing with a sophist; perhaps
prattling with a mistress; perhaps" and, as he spoke, he turned away,
and resumed his lounge, "strolling in the Forum."

*****

It was almost midnight. The party had separated. Catiline and Cethegus
were still conferring in the supper-room, which was, as usual, the
highest apartment of the house. It formed a cupola, from which windows
opened on the flat roof that surrounded it. To this terrace Zoe had
retired. With eyes dimmed with fond and melancholy tears, she leaned
over the balustrade, to catch the last glimpse of the departing form of
Caesar, as it grew more and more indistinct in the moonlight. Had he
any thought of her? Any love for her? He, the favourite of the high-born
beauties of Rome, the most splendid, the most graceful, the most
eloquent of its nobles? It could not be. His voice had, indeed, been
touchingly soft whenever he addressed her. There had been a fascinating
tenderness even in the vivacity of his look and conversation. But such
were always the manners of Caesar towards women. He had wreathed a sprig
of myrtle in her hair as she was singing. She took it from her dark
ringlets, and kissed it, and wept over it, and thought of the sweet
legends of her own dear Greece,--of youths and girls, who, pining away
in hopeless love, had been tra