e hill which rose high
above the tumultuous Adige. The shadows of the September afternoon
had begun to lengthen when he reached the top and threw himself upon
the ground near a green ash tree.

The bodily exercise had at least done him this service, that the
formless misery of the past weeks, the monstrous, wordless sense of
desolation, now resolved itself into a grief for which inner words,
however comfortless, sprang into being. Below him Verona, proud
sentinel between the North and Rome, offered herself to the embrace
of the wild, tawny river, as if seeking to retard its ominous journey
from Rhaetia's barbarous mountains to Italy's sea by Venice. Far to
the northeast ghostly Alpine peaks awaited their coronal of sunset
rose. Southward stretched the plain of Lombardy. Within easy reach
of his eye shimmered the lagoon that lay about Mantua. The hour veiled
hills and plain in a luminous blue from which the sun's radiance was
excluded. Through the thick leaves of the ash tree soughed the
evening wind, giving a voice to the dying day. In its moan Catullus
seemed to find his own words: "He is dead, he is dead." His brother
was dead. This fact became at last clear in his consciousness and
he began to take it up and handle it.

The news had come two weeks ago, just as he was on the point of flying
from Rome and the autumn fevers to the gaieties of Naples and Baiae.
That was an easy escape for a youth whose only taskmasters were the
Muses and who worked or played at the behest of his own mood. But
his brother, Valerius, had obeyed the will of Rome, serving her,
according to her need, at all seasons and in all places. Stationed
this year in Asia Minor he had fallen a victim to one of the disastrous
eastern fevers. And now Troy held his ashes, and never again would
he offer thanks to Jupiter Capitolinus for a safe return to Rome.

As soon as the letter from Valerius's comrade reached him, Catullus
had started for Verona. For nearly ten years he had spoken of himself
as living in Rome, his house and his work, his friendships and his
love knitting him closely, he had supposed, into the city's life.
But in this naked moment she had shown him her alien and indifferent
face and he knew that he must go _home_ or die. It was not until he
saw his father's stricken eyes that he realised that, for once,
impulse had led him into the path of filial duty. In the days that
followed, however, except by mere presence, neither mourner could