It was noon of the same day — a warm and sunny noon, in
which the birds and the breeze equally counselled pleasure and
repose. The viands stood before our Cœlius and his wife, the
choicest fruits of Italy, and cates which might not, in later days,
have misbeseemed the favorite chambers of Lucullus. The goblet
was lifted in the hands of both, and the heart of Aurelia felt
almost as cheerful as the expression on her face. It was the
reflection in the face of her husband. His brow was gloomy no
longer. The tones of his voice were neither cold, nor angry,
nor desponding. A change — she knew not why — had come
over his spirit, and he smiled, nay, laughed out, in the very exultation
of a new life. Aurelia conjectured nothing of this so
sudden change. Enough that it was grateful to her soul. She
was too happy in its influence to inquire into its cause. What
heart that is happy does inquire? She quaffed the goblet at his
bidding — quaffed it to the dregs — and her eye gleamed delighted
and delightfully upon his, even as in the first hours of their union.
She had no apprehensions — dreaded nothing sinister — and did

[figure description] Page 234.[end figure description]

not perceive that ever, at the close of his laughter, there was a convulsive
quiver in his tones, a sort of hysterical sobbing, that he
seemed to try to subdue in vain. She noticed not this, nor the
glittering, almost spectral brightness of his glance, as, laughing
tumultuously, he still kept his gaze intently fixed upon her. She
was blind to all things but the grateful signs of his returning
happiness and attachment. Once more the goblet was lifted.
“To Turmes [Mercury] the conductor,” cried the husband. The
wife drank unwittingly — for still her companion smiled upon
her, and spoke joyfully, and she was as little able as willing to
perceive that anything occult occurred in his expression.

“Have you drank?” he asked.

She smiled, and laid the empty goblet before him.

“Come, then, you shall now behold the picture. You will
now be prepared to understand it.”

They rose together, but another change had overspread his
features. The gayety had disappeared from his face. It was
covered with a calm that was frightful. The eye still maintained
all its eager intensity, but the lips were fixed in the icy
mould of resolution. They declared a deep, inflexible purpose.
There was a corresponding change in his manner and deportment.
But a moment before he was all life, grace, gayety and
great flexibility; he was now erect, majestic and commanding
in aspect, with a lordly dignity in his movement, that declared
a sense of a high duty to be done. Aurelia was suddenly impressed
with misgivings. The change was too sudden not to startle
her. Her doubts and apprehensions were not lessened when,
instead of conducting her to the studio, where she expected to
see the picture, he led the way through the vestibule and into
the open court of the palace. They lingered but for a moment
at the entrance, and she then beheld his brother Aruns approaching.
To him she gave not a look.

“All is right,” said the latter.

“Enter!” was the reply of Cœlius; and as the brother disappeared
within the vestibule, the two moved forward through the
outer gate. They passed through a lovely wood, shady and
silent, through which, subdued by intervening leaves, gleamed
only faintly the bright, clear sun of Italy. From under the
huge chestnuts, on either hand, the majestic gods of Etruria

[figure description] Page 235.[end figure description]

extended their guiding and endowing hands. Tina, or Jupiter,
Aplu, or Apollo, Erkle, Turmes, and the rest, all conducting
them along the via sacra, which led from the palaces to the
tombs of every proud Etruscan family. They entered the solemn
grove which was dedicated to night and silence, and were
about to ascend the gradual slopes by which the tumulus was
approached. Then it was that the misgivings of Aurelia took a
more serious form. She felt a vague but oppressive fear. She
hesitated.

“My Cœlius,” she exclaimed, “whither do we go? Is not
this the passage to the house of silence?”

“Do you not know it?” he demanded quickly, and fixing
upon her a keen inquiring glance. “Come!” he continued, “it
is there that I have fixed the picture!”

“Alas! my Cœlius, wherefore? It is upon this picture that
you have been so deeply engaged. It has made you sad — it
has left us both unhappy. Let us not go — let me not see it!”
Her agitation was greatly increased. He saw it, and his face
put on a look of desperate exultation.

“Ay, but thou must see it — thou shalt look upon it and behold
my triumph, my greatest triumph in art, and perhaps my
last. I shall never touch pencil more, and wilt thou refuse to
look upon my last and noblest work. Fie! this were a wrong
to me, and a great shame in thee, Aurelia. Come! the toil of
which thou think'st but coldly, has brought me peace rather than
sadness. It has made of death a thing rather familiar than offensive.
If it has deprived me of hopes, it has left me without
terrors!”

“Deprived you of hopes, my Cœlius,” said the wife, still lingering,
and in mortal terror.

“Even so!”

“And, wherefore, O, my husband, wherefore?”

“Speak not, woman! See you not that we are within the
shadow of the tomb?”

“Let us not approach — let us go hence!” she exclaimed entreatingly,
with increasing agitation.

“Ay, shrink'st thou!” he answered; “well thou may'st. The
fathers of the Pomponii, for two thousand years, are now floating
around us on their sightless wings. They wonder that a

[figure description] Page 236.[end figure description]

Roman woman should draw nigh to the dwellings of our ancient
Lucumones.”

“A Roman woman!” she exclaimed reproachfully. “My
Cœlius, wherefore this?”

“Art thou not?”

“I am thy wife.”

“Art sure of that?”

“As the gods live and look upon us, I am thine, this hour and
for ever!”

“May the gods judge thee, woman,” he responded slowly, as
he paused at the gate of the mausoleum, and fixed his eyes intently
upon her. Hers were raised to heaven, with her uplifted
hands. She did not weep, and her grief was still mixed with a
fearful agitation.

“Let us now return, my Cœlius!”

“What, wilt thou not behold the picture?”

“Not now — at another season. I could not look upon it now!”

“Alas! woman, but this can not be. Thou must behold it
now or never. Hope not to escape. Enter! I have a tale to
tell thee, and a sight to show thee within, which thou canst not
hear or see hereafter. Enter!” As he spoke, he applied the
key to the stone leaf, and the door slowly revolved upon the
massy pivots. She turned and would have fled, but he grasped
her by the wrist, and moved toward the entrance. She carried
her freed hand to her forehead — parted the hair from her eyes,
and raised them pleadingly to heaven. Resistance she saw was
vain. Her secret was discovered. She prepared to enter, but
slowly. “Enter! Dost thou fear now,” cried her husband,
“when commanded? Hast thou not, thou, a Roman, ventured
already to penetrate these awful walls, given to silence and the
dead — and on what mission? Enter, as I bid thee!”