the fortunes of the villain father.
Slightly he touched on that atrocity of Catiline, by telling which aloud
he dared not sully her pure ears. He then related clearly and succinctly
the murder of the cutler Volero, his recognition of the murderer, the
forced deception which he had used reluctantly toward Cicero, and the
suspicions and distrust of that great man. And here again he paused,
hoping that she would speak, and interrupt him, if it were even to
condemn, for so at least he should be relieved from the sickening
apprehension, which almost choked his voice.

Still, she was silent, and, in so far as he could judge, more tranquil
than before. For the quick tremors had now ceased to shake her, and her
tears, he believed, had ceased to flow.

But was not this the cold tranquillity of a fixed resolution, the firmness
of a desperate, self-controlling effort?

He could endure the doubt no longer. And, in a softer and more humble
voice,

"Now, then," he said, "you know the measure of my sin--the extent of my
falsehood. All the ill of my tale is told, faithfully, frankly. What
remains, is unmixed with evil. Say, then; have I sinned, Julia, beyond the
hope of forgiveness? If to confess that, my eyes dazzled with beauty, my
blood inflamed with wine, my better self drowned in a tide of luxury
unlike aught I had ever known before, my senses wrought upon by every art,
and every fascination--if to confess, that my head was bewildered, my
reason lost its way for a moment--though my heart never, never failed in
its faith--and by the hopes, frail hopes, which I yet cling to of obtaining
you--the dread of losing you for ever! Julia, by these I swear, my heart
never did fail or falter! If, I say, to confess this be sufficient, and I
stand thus condemned and lost for ever, spare me the rest--I may as well be
silent!"

She paused a moment, ere she answered; and it was only with an effort,
choking down a convulsive sob, that she found words at all.

"Proceed," she said, "with your tale. I cannot answer you."

But, catching at her words, with all the elasticity of youthful hope, he
fancied that she _had_ answered him, and cried joyously and eagerly--

"Sweet Julia, then you can, you will forgive me."

"I have not said so, Paullus," she began. But he interrupted her, ere she
could frame her sentence--

"No! dearest; but your speech implied it, and--"

But here, in her turn, she interrupted him, saying--

"Then, Paullus, did m