were thrust
carelessly into unmatched slippers.

It was past noon already; nor, though his favorite freedman Thrasea had
warned him several times of the lateness of the hour, had he shewn the
least willingness to exert himself, so far even as to dress his hair, or
put on attire befitting the business of the day.

It could not but be seen, at a glance, that he was ill at ease; and in
truth he was much perturbed by what had passed on the preceding night, and
very anxious with regard to the future.

Nor was it without ample cause that he was restless and disturbed; within
the last three days he had by his own instability of purpose, and
vacillating tastes and temper brought himself down from as enviable a
position as well can be imagined, to one as insecure, unfortunate, and
perilous.

That he had made to himself in Catiline an enemy, as deadly, as
persevering, as relentless as any man could have upon his track; an enemy
against whom force and fraud would most likely be proved equally
unavailing, he entertained no doubt. But brave as he was, and fearless,
both by principle and practice, he cared less for this, even while he
confessed to himself, that he must be on his guard now alway against both
open violence and secret murder, than he did for the bitter feeling, that
he was distrusted; that he had brought himself into suspicion and ill-odor
with the great man, in whose eyes he would have given so much to stand
fairly, and whose good-will, and good opinion, but two little days before,
he flattered himself that he had conciliated by his manly conduct.

Again, when he thought of Julia, there was no balm to his heart, no
unction to his wounded conscience! What if she knew not, nor suspected
anything of his disloyalty, did not he know it, feel it in every nerve?
Did he not read tacit reproaches in every beam of her deep tranquil eye?
Did he not fancy some allusion to it, in every tone of her low sweet
voice? Did he not tremble at every air of heaven, lest it should waft the
rumor of his infidelity to the chaste ears of her, whom alone he loved and
honored? Did he not know that one whisper of that disgraceful truth would
break off, and forever, the dear hopes, on which all his future happiness
depended? And was it not most possible, most probable, that any moment
might reveal to her the fatal tidings?--The rage of Catiline, frustrated in
his foul designs, the revengeful jealousy of Lucia, the vigilance of the
distrustful