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LETTER XV.

It were a vain endeavour, my Curtius, to attempt to describe the fever of indignation, and rage, and grief, that burned in the bosoms of this unhappy people, as soon as it was known that their Queen was a captive in the hands of the Romans. Those imprisoned upon suspicion of having been concerned in her betrayal would have been torn from their confinement, and sacrificed to the wrath of the citizens, in the first hours of their excitement, but for the formidable guard by which the prisons were defended. The whole population seemed to be in the streets and public places, giving and receiving with eagerness such intelligence as could be obtained. Their affliction is such as it would be had each one lost a parent or a friend. The men rave, or sit, or wander about listless and sad; the women weep; children catch the infection, and lament as for the greatest misfortune that could have overtaken them. The soldiers, at first dumb with amazement at so unlooked-for and unaccountable a catastrophe, afterward, upon learning that it fell out through the treason of Antiochus, bound themselves by oaths never to acknowledge or

submit to his authority, though Aurelian himself should impose him upon them--nay, to sacrifice him to the violated honour of the empire, if ever he should fall into their power.

Yet all are not such. The numbers are not contemptible of those who, openly or secretly, favour the cause and approve the act of Antiochus. He has not committed so great a crime without some prospect of advantage from it, nor without the assurance that a large party of the citizens, though not the largest, is with him, and will adhere to his fortunes. These are they who think, and justly think, that the Queen has sacrificed the country to her insane ambition and pride. They cleave to Antiochus, not from personal regard toward him, but because he seems more available for their present purposes than any other, principally through his foolhardy ambition; and, on the other hand, they abandon the Queen, not for want of personal affection, equal perhaps to what exists in any others, but because they conceive that the power of Rome is too mighty to contend with, and that their best interests, rather than any extravagant notions of national honour, ought to prompt their measures.

The city will now give itself up, it is probable, upon the first summons of Aurelian, The council and the senate have determined that to hold out longer than a few days more is impossible. The provisions of the public granaries are exhausted, and the people are already beginning to be pinched with hunger. The rich, and all who have been enabled to subsist upon their own stores, are now engaged in Distributing what remains among the poorer sort, who are now thrown upon their compassion. May it not be, that I am to be a witness of a people dying of

unger! Gracchus and Fausta are busily employed relieving the wants of the suffering.

We have waited impatiently to hear the fate of the Queen. Many reports have prevailed, founded upon what has been observed from the walls. At one time, t has been said that she had perished under the hands of the executioner-at another, that the whole Roman -amp had been seen to be thrown into wild tumult, and that she had doubtless fallen a sacrifice to the ungovernable fury of the licentious soldiery. I cannot think either report probable. Aurelian, if he revenged himself by her death, would reserve her for execution on the day of his triumph. But he would never tarnish his glory by such an act. And for the soldiers-I am sure of nothing more than that they are under too rigid a discipline, and hold Aurelian in too great terror, to dare to commit a violence like that which has been imputed to them.

At length-for hours are months in such suspensewe are relieved. Letters have come from Nichomachus to both Longinus and Livia.

First, their sum is, the Queen lives!

I shall now give you what I gather from them.

When we had parted,' writes the secretary, 'from the river's edge, we were led at a rapid pace over the same path we had just come, to the neighbourhood of the Roman camp. I learned from what I overheard of the conversation of the Centurion with his companion at his side, that the flight of the Queen had been betrayed. But beyond that, nothing.

"We were taken not at once to the presence of Aurelian, but lodged in one of the abandoned palaces in the outskirts of the city-that of Seleucus, if I err not

where, the Queen being assigned the apartments

needful for her and her effects, a guard was set around the building.

'Here we had remained not long, yet long enough for the Queen to exchange her disguise for her usual robes, when it was announced by the Centurion that we must proceed to the tent of the Emperor. The Queen and the Princess were placed in a close litter, and conveyed secretly there, out of fear of the soldiers, "who," said the Centurion, "if made aware of whom we carry, would in their rage tear to fragments and scatter to the winds both the litter and its burden."

mistress seem

'We were in this manner borne through the camp to the tent of Aurelian. As we entered, the Emperor stood at its upper end, surrounded by the chief persons of his army. He advanced to meet the Queen, and in his changing countenance and disturbed manner might it be plainly seen how even an Emperor, and he the Emperor of the world, felt the presence of a majesty such as Zenobia's. And never did our great more of a Queen than now-not through that commanding pride which, when upon her throne, has impressed all who have approached her with a feeling of inferiority, but through a certain dark and solemn grandeur that struck with awe, as of some superior being, those who looked upon her. There was no sign of grief upon her countenance, but many of a deep and rooted sadness, such as might No one could behold her and not lament the fortune which had brought her to such a Whoever had thought to enjoy the triumph of exulting over the royal captive, was rebuked by that air of calm dignity and profound melancholy, which, even against the will, touched the hearts of all, and

never pass away.

pass.

forced their homage.

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"It is a happy day for Rome," said Aurelian, apaching and saluting her, "that sees you, lately een of Palmyra and of the East, a captive in the t of Aurelian."

"And a dark one for my afflicted country," replied › Queen.

"It might have been darker," rejoined the Emror, "had not the good providence of the gods devered you into my hands."

"The gods preside not over treachery. And it ust have been by treason among those in whom I ave placed my most familiar trust, that I am now -here and what I am. I can but darkly surmise by whose baseness the act has. been committed. It had -een a nobler triumph to you, Roman, and a lighter all to me, had the field of battle decided the fate of my kingdom, and led me a prisoner to your tent."

"Doubtless it had been so," replied Aurelian; yet was it for me to cast away what chance threw into my power? A war is now happily ended, which, had your boat reached the further bank of the Euphrates, might yet have raged-and but to the mutual Yet it was both a bold harm of two great nations.

and sagacious device, and agrees well with what was done by you at Antioch, Emesa, and now in the defence of your city. A more determined, a better appointed, or more desperate foe, I have never yet contended with."

"It were strange, indeed," replied the Queen, "if you met not with a determined foe, when life and Had not treason, base liberty were to be defended. and accursed treason, given me up like a chained slave to your power, yonder walls must have first been beaten piecemeal down by your engines, and buried