The panic had reached the palace. The people and Nymphidius, with dissembled sympathy, "when rebelsoldiery had at length thrown off the mask. Public lion is even at the palace-gate. Consult thy safety." opinion had yielded to the sense of oppression and rapacity. The sensualist paused in his pleasures, and the || Tyrant forgot his cruelty. CHAPTER II.-THE PALACE. "Down with the Tyrant! Away with the player!— Galba-a soldier for the Cæsars' throne!" Such were the cries uttered by the people as they surrounded the palace. It is a fearful thing to witness the last moments of the guilty. The nerve which has supported them in the hour of bloodshed and horror, seems to be relaxed; the sternness which has never bent to circumstances, is at length awed into the weakness of childhood; and conscience, who has marked in silence the workings of passion, and the blow of the assassin, gives now to the tongue of the accuser the poison of revenge. Such were the feelings of the Tyrant as he heard without the clamors of hatred and derision. The noise of his insulted people rang in his ears like the reproofs of conscience. It revived his career of crime and folly, and almost declared the penalty which was exacted for both. "Hearest thou that, Epaphroditus?" he exclaimed as another shout rent the air; "how wouldst thou advise? Flight Speak, speak." Pale, hesitating and trembling, he fixed his eyes on the secretary. "The hour for Caesar's flight is not yet come," replied his favorite; "this many-mouthed monster can be silenced by force. Cæsar can yet appeal to the camp, and shall be answered by the loyalty of his soldiers." "No, no, not one, not one left," ejaculated the wretched man; "they, too, have forsaken me. Ha! hearest thou that? They shout for Galba." "Save me," said the helpless man clasping his hands imploringly," and thou shalt own the gratitude of Cæsar.” "I can devise but one plan for thy escape," replied the Præfect, after a pause. "Thou hast but one place for thy retreat. Egypt." "Must I then fly?" said Nero, as he cast his eyes round the apartment, and felt that the abandonment of his palace was the abdication of his throne. "Can they not be appeased?" "Thou hearest their clamor," said the Præfect; "as well might we tame the tempest." "Then must Cæsar fly," exclaimed Nero. "Canst thou secure my retreat from the palace to the ship?" "I will leave nought untried," replied Nymphidius, as he withdrew. CHAPTER III.-CONSCIENCE. "All, is lost. Cæsar no longer fills the throne. The Prætorians clamor for a soldier," fell incoherently from Nero, as he flung himself upon a couch. 64 Alone, alone. Where are now the praises which hailed me victor? Silent. Where are the flatterers that courted me in the moment of power? Gone. Solitude, solitude," continued the wretched man, agitation and fear almost stifling his utterance. "Ha! who's there?" he cried, seizing his sword, as terror whispered the approach of an enemy." "Nymphidius," replied the stranger, entering. "What tidings? Quick!" rejoined Nero, breathless with fear and impatience. "Fortune is against the House of Cæsar," replied the Præfect, still wearing the mask in the affected sympathy of his manner. "Nought has been left untried by thy "They dare not raise him to the throne," replied servant to quell this clamor, and nought save bribes drove Epaphroditus." "Nay, talk not thus," replied Nero, "I tell thee they who have power dare to act as will. How now, Nymphidius?" he said abruptly, as the latter entered. "All is lost," replied the Præfect with dissembled regret. "Lost!" retorted Nero, with an air of offended pride. "Now, by Jupiter! thou tauntest Cæsar on his throne. I tell thee Rome is safe while her Cæsar lives." The momentary courage which animated his words seemed to expire with them; his brow contracted, and his lips quivered as he muttered, "Death, death." "Rome would be safe," replied Nymphidius, eyeing his terror with delight, "but the Prætorians—” "No more of that," interrupted Nero, as rage in turn supplanted fear, "no more of that. Treason in the camp, and sedition among the people." "The Fathers, too-" "Have joined them?" interrogated Nero. "And are prepared to issue a fatal decree," replied Nymphidius. the people from thy gate." "Thanks, thanks, good fellow," said Nero, abruptly. "Say, hast thou secured my flight?" "I did thy bidding," replied Nymphidius, " and ordered the soldiers to equip a vessel for thy conveyance to Egypt, but-" "Well, did they so?" "Not one," rejoined the Præfect. "The license of the populace hath extended to the camp, and the disaffected know no other motives save their own interests and wishes. I speak not," he continued, with that well-skilled hypocrisy which not only points the dart, but watches the rankling of the wound, "to give thee needless fears; but when I ordered them to repair to Ostia, the reluctance was too manifest to admit a doubt as to the allegiance of the Prætorians. One of them asked me, 'Is it so wretched a thing to die?' As he spoke, the sneering malignity which marked the expression of the man barbed the imputation of cowardice contained in his words. "To die! To die!" muttered the Tyrant, almost inaudibly. "Cæsar, hath it then come to this? Have the children arisen against the sire, taunting him with the fear of death? Alas!" exclaimed the wretched man, pressing his hands to his fevered brow, "now my deeds "It is now too late to speak of vengeance," replied recoil on mine own head. The Fates ensnare me in the ‘All, then, is lost," muttered the Tyrant. "Oh, that the slaves were mine as before," he continued, in a tone of ferocity," they should feel my vengeance." meshes of mine own net. Hark," he continued, starting in terror as imagination painted the clamors of an insurgent people. "What noise was that?" 64 'My lord, I heard none," replied the Præfect, calmly. The Tyrant listened attentively, when he found that he had become a dupe to his own fears, the tears of agony and shame came to his relief. He leant on the shoulder of the treacherous Prætorian, and wept bitterly, "Thou but sportest with time," said the Præfect in a tone which disguised design under affected sympathy. "Let not Rome see Cæsar play the girl, when her disobedience claims the sterner appeal of the sword and punishment." CHAPTER IV.-LOVE AND MISERY. The wretched man, with the delusive hope of suffering, had but exchanged one place of torment for another. The criminal, by flight from the spot of his guilt, hopes to bury its memories, and still those murmurs of conscience which rise like curses, "not loud but deep" from the grave of his victim. But though the external world may change its aspect and features, the heart and mind are still the same. Conscience, like a persevering anatomist, still holds the probe and cautery to the wound. And though Nature may smile and bloom in the place of his retreat, though the skies be blue, and the sun gleam "True, true," said the Emperor, starting from his reverie, the mention of punishment reviving at once the sense of rank and power; "true, the tear should not be now the Prince's weapon-the sword—the lash,” he continued, convulsively locking his hands. "Slaves, slaves!" "Those slaves," rejoined Nymphidius, with bitter irony,|| "may become masters when the sovereign abjures his with his accustomed brightness, yet guilt, with her sable sceptre." As the Præfect spoke, the mention of concession to his people roused the dormant pride of the Prince, and the recollections of the lofty House from which he traced his descent. He, for the moment, forgot "the taste of fear;" his eyes kindled, his countenance became flushed, || and his form assumed an air of imperial command, as imagination seemed to embody the glories of his House. Cæsar," he exclaimed, after a pause," shall die with that sceptre in his hand." The burst of pride, however, was brief and weak. It sprang rather from a sense of insult than courage to resent it, and shone as faintly as the last torch ere it expires by the funeral-pile it watches. "Thou wilt not leave me, Nymphidius?" he said, imploringly, as fear began to reassert her former sway. My Lord," replied the Præfect, "the time presses, the people clamor, and sedition is rife in the camp. Tarry here longer, and even my arm is weak to defend thee." "Whither, whither, can I fly?" exclaimed the Tyrant, clasping his hands in fear and doubt. "From the palace," rejoined Nymphidius. "They will detect and seize me," replied Nero. His voice faltered, and his face became ghastly as he added, "they will seek my blood; I have not spared theirs." As he spoke a distant shout reached his ears. "Ha! hearest thou that?" he cried. "It is the people," said the Præfect. "Save me, save me," exclaimed Nero, rushing to the feet of the soldier, and burying his face in his mantle. "Rise, rise, my lord," said Nymphidius, reprovingly, "let not thy servants see Cæsar at my feet." The Emperor rose hastily, and casting his eyes wildly round the apartment, observed his sword. He rushed and seized it. As he held it in a position to receive his fall, another shout still closer rang through the palace. || The sword fell from his hand. He stood fixed to the spot. The drops fell profusely from his brow. His eyes glared fearfully. "Not yet, not yet. I dare not," fell brokenly from him, and twining his fingers in his damp and matted hair, he rushed from the chamber. curtain, obscures the face of day, and makes creation a darkness and a blank. He had fled from one chamber only to be haunted in another with the shadows of fear and crime which harrowed and persecuted him. As he hurried rapidly through the passages, he seemed to be pursued by the lashes of the Furies, yet shuddered to advance, when the very floor at every step was stained with crimson. Still, on he rushed, his gait tottering and uneven, his eyes wandering and wild, and his hands locked in earnestness for protection from the Gods, as every footstep sent its hollow echo through the vacant space. He at length reached a small ante-chamber connected with his own private apartment, and flinging himself with violence on a couch, burying his face in his hands, the harrowings of fear were succeeded by the bitterness of grief. Through his locked hands the tears gushed profusely, but the spirit of repentance slumbered, while grief and terror unlocked the fountains of nature. Where the mind is harrassed, the body partakes its restless uneasiness. He started from his couch, and paced the chamber. "The Gods-the Gods vouchsafe their aid!" groaned the guilty man. "Ha! back-back, I say, thou bloodstained shade," he continued, clasping his hands to his eyes, as imagination bodied forth the spectre of his own thoughts; "back, there's blood upon that hand—those eyes-that form-Jupiter! shield, protect thy servant!" Pale and shivering he sank upon his knees, his hands still firmly clasped to his eyes; he slowly withdrew them, and surveying the apartment with a hurried and trembling glance, rose from the ground. "Fool, fool," he murmured, "what can'st thou see? 'Tis here-here-the vulture preys, and the fires waste and burn-ha! do I dream?" he continued in a recollective tone, as though fear had broken the chain of connected thought. "Why stand I here parleying with conscience, when murder even stalks through my palace? They would have me fly! Alas! alas! whither? Hark! what sound was that?" he paused and listened. In that breathless moment not a sound was heard. "Fool!" he said, in a tone of bit | name it not, my girl; 'tis here-here-it gnaws like the adder's fang." He broke from her clasp, and declining his head on his breast, his expressions became stifled and broken. "Leave me-leave me," he said falteringly, "if these be my last moments, let not a woman witness the tears of Cæsar." The emphasis seemed for a moment to rekindle the dying spark of kingly pride; but like the brief resuscitation of vital energy, ere the lamp be extinguished, it only lent the stronger contrast to the weakness and prostra terness, "I am my own torture. Flight were impossible -the Prætorians have joined the rabble, and the sentinels at the gate would seize me." Fear and uncertainty, while they distracted his mind, broke the link of his thoughts. He wandered from theme to theme, at one moment forming designs for his safety, at another shuddering at the vivid recollection of his crimes. Even his hours of relaxation rose, as it were, to taunt his misery and embitter it by contrast. The part of Œdipus, which he had so frequently personated, rushed to his memory with the coloring of "a mind diseased," and the language of fiction realizing the agonies of his condition, he|tion which succeed. The pride of the king subsided in exclaimed, “My wife, my father, and my mother doom the terrors of the man, and Nero could not repress the me dead. Dead-dead!" he continued, as the pale ter- tears, more bitter when shed in the presence of a rors of the image seemed to blanch his cheek and lips; woman. "dead! 'Tis but a moment, and the pain is past-this, this shall end it." He drew from his bosom a small vial and was presenting it to his lips, when the door of the apartment opening, disclosed the form of Actè. Shame and indignation flung their shadow athwart his countenance, as he felt the attempted deed bespoke his fear. It was but a moment-the vial was snatched from his hand, the Asiatic was clasped to his heart, and the whisperings of guilt and fear were for the moment lost, in the soft and seductive tones of the mistress. "Wherefore here?" said Nero, hastily, his face averted from the lovely form he clasped, and the shame of detection subduing his words to a whisper. "Nay, ask me not," replied the affectionate slave, clinging to him with that tenderness and passion, which dignify the character of woman in the hour of affliction. "Where Cæsar is, even there should his slave be also. Thinkest thou, my lord," she continued, her dark eyes kindling with the pride of exalted feeling, "that it is the part of woman only to tempt the stream, when its still and sleeping bosom mirrors back the image of a sunshine-heaven? Or thinkest thou the flower she has tended with a sister's care through the summer's day, she will not raise from the ground, though it be chilled and blasted by the winter air? Yea, press to her heart those withered leaves, in memory of love and hope that have faded like the brightness of that flower? Think not 'tis woman's part to share the hours of joy and happiness, to echo mirth, or paint the smile, and yet leave misery to the sad companionship of a lone and sinking heart." As she spoke the tears fell quickly, from the ardor and sincerity of her love, and twining her delicate arms around his convulsed and trembling frame, imprinted on his cheek that kiss which betrays not-the seal of woman's love. Nero stood silent in her embrace, shame and terror struggled for the mastery within, and pride forbade him even to regard her who, though woman, could inspire suffering with strength. "Speak, speak, my lord," she continued with earnestness, still more fondly clasping him to her bosom; "speak, and tell thy slave that in misery and sorrow thou lovest her still ?" "Misery!" ejaculated Nero, while he pressed his hand || to his eyes to subdue the rising tears. "Misery! I am miserable. Hunted for my life, by those whose praises were as false as the breath that made them. Misery! "Leave me," he said, bitterly. "I sought thee not, my lord," replied the Asiatic artlessly, and approaching, once more embracing him: "I sought thee not to part so soon. I came, not as one who brings no comfort, but to listen to the grief she cannot silence, and the tears she cannot dry.” "Comfort!" responded Nero, while the ardor of her embrace, and the gentleness of her voice, that most excellent thing in woman, for the moment dissolved the spell which bound him to the sense of his condition. "Comfort! Where-" "Here," responded Actè, interrupting him, " even in the arms of her thou lovest, and who, through weal or suffering, will requite thee with that priceless treasure thou hast confided to her keeping-rich as the day thou gav'st it her, for time hath not decayed it: and pure as the stream whose mirror is stirred not, save by the breath of heaven." "My own-my faithful one!" said Nero, after a pause, regarding her, his expression borrowing a tenderness from the tones which fell as soft as a strain of the Æolian, amid the wintry blast which awakes its music. "My own! Wilt thou alone, of all who have smiled to deceive, still cling to me amid the storms which beset and threaten me? Yet," he continued, after a moment's pause, steadfastly gazing on her lovely face and almost compassionating the self-devotion which shuddered not at death, "Yet I would not have thee cling, Actè, so reckless in thy love. Thou art even now as a fair flower of the spring, clasping thy tendrils round a rude and storm-beaten tree. If I must fall," he said, his voice weakened by emotion, "let not the blast that crusheth me, wither thy young and beautiful stem also." "As I have lived, so will I die with thee," replied Actè, passionately; "tear me not from that fate which passion defies, while it consecrates the pile. Be it in the palace, the retreat of persecution, or the hour of disgrace, as our hearts have been twined so let our loves be. Thou hast raised me to the throne, and I will leave it but with thee. The love of woman, though it may bloom in the bright and fragrant hour of summer, can spring also in the wastes of grief, or shed its perfume on the winter air." The slave sank her head upon his breast, and the tears which passion shed were answered by the throbs of grief. "Away, away! with these woman's weapons," ex claimed Nero impatiently, starting from the reverie into which agony and doubt had plunged him; "this is no time for grief, and if it were-” "Let thy tears fall here, even on the heart which is thine,” cried the Asiatic, extending towards him her arms, imploringly. to his flight, he darted onwards. He was not far from the Tiber, and on the moment resolved that its waters should be his tomb. He was already on its banks-the footsteps rapidly gained on him—he stooped over the edge, the clear cold stars were sleeping on its bosom--he involuntarily started back, as, in the attitude to plunge, his reflected image met his eye. A momentary courage throbbed within his heart, like the deceptive gleam of hope which lights the "Where thou goest will I go," exclaimed Actè, rush-eye of the dying man; he drew his sword, and resolved ing forward and clasping his hand to her heart. "Thou shalt not, can'st not leave me." “Not now, not now," uttered Nero, endeavoring to rally the thoughts their interview had interrupted. "Not now. Safety-danger-flight," he added, brokenly. "I will return, my love," replied Nero, looking at her with a countenance where fear paled the cheek, while it quivered the lip, "presently-" "I will follow thee, even to death," cried Actè, clinging still more earnestly to the hand he endeavored to wrest from her. "Ha, thy words sound like an omen!" retorted Nero, as he tore himself from her and hid his face in his hands. A deep and hollow groan rang through the apartment. The words," he leaves me!" followed in a stifled, inaudible tone. Nero turned, and beheld the prostrate form of his mistress. Her cheek was white, her brow calm and composed, and a smile still hovered round that half-open, chiselled lip, as though Love and Hope wreathed their garlands around the cypress-wand of Grief. He stooped and kissed her, and casting on the form a look of agony and despair, darted from the chamber. CHAPTER V.-THE FLIGHT. The goadings of crime, the apprehension of instant death, and the incapability of satiating vengeance on those whom wrongs and persecution had invested with a superior power, rose within the tyrant, as, in flight, he cast a lingering look upon the palace of his pride, his power and his guilt. Mingled with the ceaseless cries of a sanguinary and determined mob, rose the sweet and silvery tones of her whose attachment had, for the moment, subdued the horrors of his fate, and lent a respite to its pain. It fell on his anxious and nervous sense like the music of the Mermaid's voice, when she sports amid the strife of the waters, and braids her tresses that float on the wing of the tempest. "He leaves me," dwelt on his memory with a melancholy, anticipative of a separation, he felt, would be final. Still, on he rushed: he knew, he cared not whither. In the delirium of the moment he sank on his knees, and supplicated Jupiter that|| the earth might yawn, and Curtius-like, that he might sink into her womb. The dread silence which prevailed around, giving to prayer the mockery of its own echo, fell on him with the appalling sense that even the gods had forsaken him. He started from his knees, and uttered a shriek of wildness and terror. He clasped his hands to|| his eyes, as amid the shades of evening he descried a figure rapidly approaching. He flew from the spot; he stopped for a moment, but could not summon resolution sufficient even to look behind. The footsteps became still more audible. He was evidently pursued. Flight was his only refuge, and his last hope was to anticipate the blow of his enemy. Fear and despair lending rapidity to withstand the comer. Tears and surprise for the moment suspended the power of utterance, as he recognized in the voice of the stranger, his freedman, Phaon. The faithful servant, kneeling, pressed to his lips his master's quivering hand. "Rise, rise," said Nero, hastily, "this is no time for the cold forms of duty. Save thy Prince; or even where he stands let thy hand end his pain." As he spoke the tears gushed freely, and with a tremulous hand and averted face, he presented Phaon with his sword. "Strike!" cried Nero, in a hollow, trembling tone. In silence he awaited the fatal blow, and turning round, beheld the sword at his freedman's feet. "How is this?" he exclaimed, his voice scarcely strong enough to assume the tone of anger, "how is this? Said I not to thee, strike? Wouldst see thy master hunted like a beast, when thou couldst save him from their fangs ?" "My lord," replied Phaon, "I will save thee, but not at the point of thine own sword. Nor shall it be said, I showed my love by an act of bloodshed." As Nero heard the last word his face became still more ghastly, heavy drops coursed his contracted brow, and his whole frame was affected by a violent shudder. He tottered to the shoulder of his freedman, and leaned on him for support. In that one word, as in a mirror, the guilty man reviewed his whole life of cruelty and horror. "My lord trembles," said Phaon, as the emotion of Nero rendered it difficult to preserve his station. "I-I—it will soon pass," rejoined his master, with hesitation, endeavoring to suppress the agitation which betrayed his fears. "Speak, speak!" continued Nero, after a pause, " save me if thou canst. Whither wilt thou lead me? Where can I hide till this storm subsides, and my pursuers weary? Speak, speak!" His eyes, glowing and dilated, were fixed upon Phaon in the agony of suspense and fear; and as the freedman met their glance, he involuntarily shuddered at their wild and distorted expression. "I will lead thee," replied Phaon, after a pause, "where hatred cannot pursue, nor suspicion find theeeven to my own villa. The obscurity of the place will favor thy concealment. It is but four miles distant from Rome. Cæsar shall be safe beneath his freedman's roof. I will watch thee by night, and desert thee not through day. Fear me not," continued the freedman, with a fidelity worthy of a better object, "I will maintain a secret communication with the city, and thou shalt know as well the proceedings of the Senate as the People." "Thanks, thanks!" exclaimed Nero, seizing his favorite's hand, the terrors and humiliation of the moment merging all sense of distinction; "thanks-I fly with thee || this moment. We can enter the palace privately. We || pel. The spirit of darkness still slumbered there, as must provide ourselves with steeds." though light, and life, and all the refreshing influences of day, refused to bestow their gifts where guilt and bloodshed had so long fixed their abode. A mist, deeper and heavier than the gathering shades of evening, spread like a curtain, blending into one vast, indistinguishable pile the variations of shape and outline. He checked his steed for a moment, and flung on it a last look, in which memory painted the revival of many a scene of horror; and, as unable any longer to endure the strife within, waving his hand to Phaon, the troop pushed their On entering the gate of the palace in disguise and haste, they found no impediment to their progress, nor any disposed to question their purpose. The palace in the absence of its master, seemed to have forgotten its splendor and pride, and had even already assumed an air of loneliness and desolation. It resembled, to its awestricken monarch as he stood within the solitary space before it, a temple, in whose destruction and neglect the wrath of the Gods had anticipated the decay of Time. Huge and dark it rose against the midnight sky, the star-horses to a gallop. light but faintly depicturing the irregularity of its outline, or brightening the dense shadow which slumbered on it like a cloud. Disaffection and revolt were evidently progressing with a fearful certainty, for the gates were deserted, and the Prætorians had already joined their associates in the camp. Nero paused for a moment, to contemplate the surrounding wreck and desolation. Grief and despair could no longer be restrained-a deep groan burst from himit rolled through the surrounding space-it echoed like the lamentation of Ruin, when she weeps amid the soli tude she has made. CHAPTER VI.THE TYRANT'S END. At dawn of day the Tyrant commenced his last and fearful journey. The decay of power was marked in the scantiness of his retinue. No courtiers followed in his train, to flatter and vaunt his praises to the sky. Not a Prætorian followed the blighted fortunes of his master. He whose minstrelsy, poetry, and dramatic attainments had called forth the exulting shouts of his people, and extorted even decrees from a Senate, scarcely less debased Rigid and immoveable as statues, they bestrode their steeds. The hands of his attendants were braced to their sword-hilts. Not a word escaped them, as they sped their way. The rigid firmness of the horseman bespoke his resolve not to quit his seat with life. As thus they advanced, a wild and discordant shout broke the surrounding silence. The horses pricked their ears, and the firmness of their riders was disconcerted by surprise and uncertainty. They checked their steeds abruptly, while Phaon and Epaphroditus unsheathed their swords. The steadiness and resolution of his followers, was strongly contrasted by the fear and cowardice of their Prince. The bridle fell from his hand, and his steed becoming unruly, was seized and checked by Phaon. The shout had died away, and a stillness deep and gravelike succeeded. It was once again broken by a clamor from the same quarter, wilder and louder than the last, and accompanied by expressions so plainly heard, as at once to announce to the tyrant the certainty of his doom and the inutility of flight. The words "Galba! Galba!" came distinctly on the wind. Animation seemed to for and servile, was now flying as a slave from the very city sake his cheek, and uttering with difficulty, “It is the Prætorians-fly!" their journey was resumed at a quickened pace. where he had ruled as Lord; and companionless, save in two attendants, was glad to abandon the pride of a palace for the humble security of an obscure villa. With the mysterious silence of men whose errand may be death, the forlorn party slowly emerged from the palace-gate. Not a word was exchanged. They even shuddered to look upon each other, lest fear, too palpable in the visage of each, might daunt the courage despair had given. The small body followed in a line. Phaon, with an attachment which might have borrowed lustre from a better cause, led the way, his arm prepared for any casual resistance, and his eye vigilant for any enemy his master's fortunes. In this They had just cleared the palace, as the rising day flung its cold grey mist on its huge and sombre mass. A dismal gloom hung on every object, which even the | renovating touch of light, seemed unable to clear or dis They were not far from the freedman's villa; their horses, at the same time, pushed almost to full speed. On a sudden the steed of Nero drew up abruptly, his ears were drawn back, and he snuffed the air with violence. and execration. The faithful Phaon dismounted, and seizing the bridle, endeavored to lead him forward. The animal only retrograded more violently, and rearing, almost dislodged his rider from his seat. The Emperor could not restrain his impatience and fear, but vented both in words of threat The delay seemed ominous of advan tage to the speed of his pursuers. Phaon, unable to acbridle for a moment, and cast his eyes searchingly around count for the obstinacy of the animal, relinquished the him. The cause at length met his view, and he started back with instinctive horror. As Nero looked on his ter ror-stricken countenance, fear suppressed curiosity; at length, in a muffled and indistinct tone, scarcely remov ing the handkerchief from his face, he said, "Speakquick-what seest thou?" "The form of death," replied Phaon; "unburied lies a corse by the road-side," "Curses on this steed!" muttered Nero, "they may be on us even now.” As he spoke, he lashed the horse violently, the noble |