he may now be disputing with a sophist; perhaps prattling with a
mistress; perhaps" and, as he spoke, he turned away, and resumed
his lounge, "strolling in the Forum."

...

It was almost midnight. The party had separated. Catiline and
Cethegus were still conferring in the supper-room, which was, as
usual, the highest apartment of the house. It formed a cupola,
from which windows opened on the flat roof that surrounded it.
To this terrace Zoe had retired. With eyes dimmed with fond and
melancholy tears, she leaned over the balustrade, to catch the
last glimpse of the departing form of Caesar, as it grew more and
more indistinct in the moonlight. Had he any thought of her?
Any love for her? He, the favourite of the high-born beauties of
Rome, the most splendid, the most graceful, the most eloquent of
its nobles? It could not be. His voice had, indeed, been
touchingly soft whenever he addressed her. There had been a
fascinating tenderness even in the vivacity of his look and
conversation. But such were always the manners of Caesar towards
women. He had wreathed a sprig of myrtle in her hair as she was
singing. She took it from her dark ringlets, and kissed it, and
wept over it, and thought of the sweet legends of her own dear
Greece,--of youths and girls, who, pining away in hopeless love,
had been transformed into flowers by the compassion of the Gods;
and she wished to become a flower, which Caesar might sometimes
touch, though he should touch it only to weave a crown for some
prouder and happier mistress.

She was roused from her musings by the loud step and voice of