[They carry her out between them.]

CURIUS. [Comes forward.]

To prison now they take her. Thence to death.-- No, no, by all the G.o.ds, this shall not be!

Must she, most glorious of womankind, Thus perish in disgrace, entombed alive?-- Oh, never have I felt so strangely moved.

Is this then love? Yes, love it is indeed.-- Then shall I set her free!--But Catiline?

With hate and vengeance will she follow him.

Has he maligners not enough already?

Dare I still others to their number add?

He was to me as were an elder brother; And grat.i.tude now bids me that I shield him.-- But what of love? Ah, what does it command?

And should he quake, the fearless Catiline, Before the intrigues of a woman? No;-- Then to the rescue work this very hour!

Wait, Furia;--I shall drag you from your grave To life again,--though at the risk of death!

[He goes away quickly.]

[A room in CATILINE's house.]

CATILINE. [Enters impetuous and uneasy.]

"Nemesis then indeed has heard my prayer, Vengeance you have invoked on your own head!"

Such were the words from the enchantress' lips.

Remarkable! Perchance it was a sign,-- A warning of what time will bring to me.

CATILINE. Now therefore I have pledged myself on oath The blood avenger of my own misdeed.

Ah, Furia,--still I seem to see your eye, Wildly aflame like that of death's own G.o.ddess!

Your words still echo hollow in my ears;-- The oath I shall remember all my life.

[During the following AURELIA enters and approaches him unnoticed.]

CATILINE. Yet, it is folly now to go on brooding Upon this nonsense; it is nothing else.

Far better things there are to think upon; A greater work awaits my energies.

The restless age is urgent with its plea; Toward this I must direct my thought in season; Of hope and doubt I am a stormy sea--

AURELIA. [Seizes his hand.]

And may not your Aurelia know the reason?

May she not know what moves within your breast, What stirs therein and rages with such madness?

May she not cheer and soothe your soul to rest, And banish from your brow its cloud of sadness?

CATILINE. [Tenderly.] O, my Aurelia,--O, how kind and tender--.

Yet why should I embitter all your life?

Why should I share with you my many sorrows?

For my sake you have borne enough of anguish.

Henceforth upon my own head I shall bear What ill-designing fate allotted me,-- The curse that lies in such a soul as mine, Full of great spiritual energies, Of fervent longings for a life of deeds, Yet dwarfed in all its work by sordid cares.-- Must you, too, sharing in my wretched life, Bitter with blasted hopes, then with me perish?

AURELIA. To comfort is the role of every wife, Though dreams of greatness she may never cherish.

When the man, struggling for his lofty dream, Reaps nothing but adversity and sorrow,-- Her words to him then sweet and tender seem, And give him strength sufficient for the morrow; And then he sees that even the quiet life Has pleasures which the most tumultuous lacks.

CATILINE. Yes, you are right; I know it all too well.

And yet I cannot tear myself away.

A ceaseless yearning surges in my breast,-- Which only life's great tumult now can quiet.

AURELIA. Though your Aurelia be not all to you,-- Though she can never still your restless soul,-- Your heart yet open to a gentle word, A word of comfort from your loving wife.

Though she may never slake your fiery thirst, Nor follow in their flight your n.o.ble thoughts,-- Know this, that she can share your every sorrow, Has strength and fort.i.tude to ease your burden.

CATILINE. Then listen, dear Aurelia; you shall hear What has of late depressed so deep my spirits.

You know, I long have sought the consulate-- Without avail. You know the whole affair-- How to increase the votes for my election, I have expended--

AURELIA. Catiline, no more; You torture me--

CATILINE. Do you too blame my course?

What better means therefor had I to choose?-- In vain I lavished all that I possessed; My one reward was mockery and shame.

Now in the senate has my adversary, The crafty Cicero, trampled me to earth.

His speech was a portrayal of my life, So glaring that I, even I, must gasp.

In every look I read dismay and fear; With loathing people speak of Catiline; To races yet unborn my name will be A symbol of a low and dreadful union Of sensuality and wretchedness, Of scorn and ridicule for what is n.o.ble.-- And there will be no deed to purge this name And crush to earth the lies that have been told!

Each will believe whatever rumor tells--

AURELIA. But I, dear husband, trust no such reports.

Let the whole world condemn you if it will; And let it heap disgrace upon your head;-- I know you hide within your inmost soul A seed that still can blossom and bear fruit.

Only it cannot burst forth here in Rome; Poisonous weeds would quickly prove the stronger.

Let us forsake this degradation's home;-- What binds you here? Why should we dwell here longer?

CATILINE. I should forsake the field,--and go away?

I should my greatest dreams in life surrender?

The drowning man still clutches firm and fast The broken spars--though hope is frail and slender; And should the wreck be swallowed in the deep, And the last hope of rescue fail forever,-- Still clings he to the lone remaining spar, And sinks with it in one last vain endeavor.

AURELIA. But should a kindly seacoast smile on him, With groves all green along the rolling billows, Hope then awakens in his heart again,-- He struggles inward, toward the silvery willows.

There reigns a quiet peace; 'tis beautiful; There roll the waves, in silence, without number; His heated brow sweet evening breezes cool, As weary-limbed he rests himself in slumber; Each sorrow-laden cloud they drive away; A restful calm his weary mind a.s.suages;-- There he finds shelter and prolongs his stay And soon forgets the sorry by-gone ages.

The distant echo of the world's unrest Alone can reach his dwelling unfrequented.

It does not break the calm within his breast;-- It makes his soul more happy and contented; It calls to mind the by-gone time of strife, Its shattered hopes and its unbridled pleasures; He finds twice beautiful this quiet life-- And would not change it for the greatest treasures.

CATILINE. You speak the truth; and in this very hour From strife and tumult I could go with you.

But can you name me some such quiet spot, Where we can live in shelter and in peace?

AURELIA. [Joyful.] You will go, Catiline? What happiness,-- Oh, richer than my bosom can contain!

Let it be so, then! Come! This very night We'll go away--

CATILINE. But whither shall we go?

Name me the spot where I may dare to rest My head in homely peace!

AURELIA. How can you ask?

Have you forgot our villa in the country, Wherein I pa.s.sed my childhood days, where since, Enraptured during love's first happy dawn, We two spent many a blithesome summer day?

Where was the gra.s.s indeed so green as there?

Where else the groves so shady and sweet-smelling?

The snow-white villa from its wooded lair Peeps forth and bids us there to make our dwelling.

There let us flee and dedicate our life To rural duties and to sweet contentment;-- You will find comfort in a loving wife, And through her kisses banish all resentment.

[Smiling.]

AURELIA. And when with all the flowers of the land You come to me, your sovereign, in my bowers, Then shall I crown you with the laurel band, And cry, All hail to you, my king of flowers!-- But why do you grow pale? Wildly you press My hand,--and strangely now your eyes are glowing--