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."

terness, "I am my own torture. Flight were impossible || name it not, my girl; 'tis here-here-it gnaws like the -the Prætorians have joined the rabble, and the senti- adder's fang." nels 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 The emphasis seemed for a moment to rekindle the and embitter it by contrast. The part of Edipus, which dying spark of kingly pride; but like the brief resuscitahe had so frequently personated, rushed to his memory tion of vital energy, ere the lamp be extinguished, it only with the coloring of "a mind diseased," and the lan- lent the stronger contrast to the weakness and prostra. guage 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 art lessly, 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

"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. 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 suminer, 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

"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 to withstand the comer. shalt not, can'st not leave me."

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 Pretorian 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 and servile, was now flying as a slave from the very city 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 who might oppose their expedition. The wretched fugitive, divested of all imperial insignia and wearing nothing save a close tunic, covered by an old and tattered cloak for the purpose of disguise, followed his freedman. His head was partially covered by the cloak, and his face concealed by a handkerchief he held before it. In this sorry and degraded plight followed the Emperor of Rome. The rear was closed by Epaphroditus, his Secretary, whose fidelity shrank not from sharing the vicissitudes of

his master's fortunes.

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

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 and the inutility of flight. The words "Galba! Galba!” once to announce to the tyrant the certainty of his doom came distinctly on the wind. Animation seemed to forPrætorians-fly!" their journey was resumed at a quicksake his cheek, and uttering with difficulty, "It is the

ened pace.

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.
The faithful Phaon dismounted, and seizing the bridle,

endeavored to lead him forward. The animal only retro-
graded 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
and execration. The delay seemed ominous of advan
tage to the speed of his pursuers. Phaon, unable to ac-
count for the obstinacy of the animal, relinquished the
bridle for a moment, and cast his eyes searchingly around
The cause at length met his view, and he started
As Nero looked on his ter-
back with instinctive horror.
ror-stricken countenance, fear suppressed curiosity; at
length, in a muffled and indistinct tone, scarcely remov-
ing the handkerchief from his face, he said, "Speak—
quick-what seest thou?”

him.

"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

mies."

"Must I then die ?" said the tyrant, slowly rising from the couch, and surveying the naked chamber with a wild and glassy eye, "Must I then die? Is there no hope?" "None," replied Phaon.

animal reared as before, and casting a side-long glance || life are forgotten, and with them the hatred of thine enewhere lay the object of its timidity, plunged forward. The suddenness of the motion jerked the veil from Nero's hand, which he had hitherto held to his face. Misfortune seemed to insert her threads in the very web which hope was weaving. At that moment a veteran, who had been dismissed the service, passed. He at once recognized his master, and saluted him by name. Nero hastily waved his hand-he was discovered-his flight would, no doubt, soon reach the city. "Forward!" he exclaimed, at the very top of his voice. Their horses were now at full speed.

The expected asylum at length rose to view. Within a short space of it they dismounted, and counselled as to the policy of future measures.

"It were not safe to enter it by the public gate, my lord," said Phaon, " your person may be recognized. Informers are frequent. Servants are seldom proof against the gold which buys their master."

Courage and resolution seemed to rise with the answer. He hastily dashed the tears from his eyes-his manner became firm and collected. "If they hunt they shall not reach me," he said, "this day shall be my last. Let my pile be collected, and mark, let not a Cæsar sleep without a monument-I would have some marble on my grave."

His momentary firmness forsook him, and, turning his face to the couch, the violence of his grief sent a dull and heavy echo through the chamber.

Footsteps were heard in the passage, and immediately a messenger, according to the private instructions of Phaon entering, presented him with papers.

"I am in thy power, good Phaon," rejoined Nero, Rome?" said Phaon, in a subdued tone. "resolve, and quickly, for my safety."

"Thy entrance into the house," said Phaon, hastily, 'must be private. Cross that field, and lie concealed till I have made a passage for thee in that remote wall of the house. Leave thy steed with me. Epaphroditus and I

will do all."

The wretched man listened to the stratagem with the meekness of a child, who bears submissively from his elders what he dares not resist or dispute. He cast on them a look, more expressive from its silence, and hastened to the appointed spot.

Faint with excitement and fear, the wretch stooped and raised in the hollow of his hand, some impure water from a ditch. "Is this, then, the cup they | have reduced Cæsar to drain?" he said, while the tears mingled with the water. "Well, well, so the draught is no bitterer, I am content."

As he raised his eyes to the appointed quarter of the house, he observed a hand waving him onward. It was Phaon's. He darted to the spot with the precipitancy of one to whom speed was life, and with difficulty was squeezed through the excavation they had made.

"From

The words acted with the power of a talisman on Nero, who recognized in them the consummation of hope or despair; and, starting from the couch, he seized the packet. He perused it with eagerness, but the tears which fell, and the trembling of his hands and frame, fully interpreted the nature of the intelligence. "A public enemy"-" ancient usage"-were the only "They have outlawed me from words they could hear. mine own realm," he said at length, with difficulty summoning courage to speak of his fate, "and the Fathers have condemned me to die, according to the rigor of ancient usage." His voice failed him, and the tears which choked it, were exchanged for a violent transport of rage. He tore the papers into fragments, and trampled on them. He folded his arms with sternness, and his figure for the "What is ancient moment assumed a rigid composure. usage?" he asked after a pause.

The attendants, as unwilling to disclose the severity of the punishment decreed, exchanged silent looks. The task at length fell on Phaon.

naked."

'Pardon, my lord," he said, "the question and your condition demand truth for the answer. It was the law The field he had quitted was scarcely more barren or of the old Republic, that every traitor should die a lindesolate, than the apartment to which he was now con- gering death beneath the rod of the Lictor; his head ducted, and which was destined to witness the last strug-fastened between two stakes, and his body entirely gles of Rome's Emperor. The walls and floor were not only destitute of covering, but defaced with squalor and filth. He surveyed it for some moments in silence, but could no longer restrain the bitterness of insulted pride, and the degradation which met him at every step. He burst violently into tears, and fell on a mean and tattered couch, the only furniture in the apartment. While he lay alternately the victim of grief and passion, his attendants, who had withdrawn to the remote end of the chamber for the purpose of conference, approached him.

"Danger presses, my lord," said Phaon, kneeling, "and there is but little hope. They who have met us on the road will conjecture thy retreat, from bearing my company." He paused to observe the effect of his words, and the tone of his master's feelings. "It is but a moment," he proceeded with hesitation, "and the cares of

An agonized expression, combining shame and pain, overspread the countenance of Nero, as he heard this detail. He started from the spot, as though he already writhed beneath the stripes of the Lictor. He stopped short again—his respiration became short and hysterical

he drew from his bosom two poignards, and feeling their sharpness gazed on them intently. He suddenly turned to his attendants, and extending the daggers"Has none," he cried, with bitterness, "the courage to show me how to die?"

The words were no sooner uttered, than the trampling of horses was heard at hand. A troop of soldiers instantly entered the room, and surrounded the door. Nero saw that hope was at an end-the monarch had indeed fallen from the high estate, which once commanded the