and woman source, but
tears from the loftiest fountain of emotion--tears that befit a warrior
when his own troops desert him--a patriot when his countrymen rush
to their own doom--a father when his children rebel against his
love,--tears such as these forced themselves from his eyes and
relieved,--but they changed, his heart!

"Enough, enough!" he said, presently rising and dashing the drops
scornfully away; "I have risked, dared, toiled enough for this dastard
and degenerate race. I will yet baffle their malice--I renounce the
thought of which they are so little worthy!--Let Rome perish!--I feel,
at last, that I am nobler than my country!--she deserves not so high a
sacrifice!"

With that feeling, Death lost all the nobleness of aspect it had before
presented to him; and he resolved, in very scorn of his ungrateful foes,
in very defeat of their inhuman wrath, to make one effort for his life!
He divested himself of his glittering arms; his address, his dexterity,
his craft, returned to him. His active mind ran over the chances of
disguise--of escape;--he left the hall--passed through the humbler
rooms, devoted to the servitors and menials--found in one of them a
coarse working garb--indued himself with it--placed upon his head some
of the draperies and furniture of the palace, as if escaping with
them; and said, with his old "fantastico riso" ("Fantastic smile or
laugh.")--"When all other friends desert me, I may well forsake myself!"
With that he awaited his occasion.

Meanwhile the flames burnt fierce and fast; the outer door below was
already consumed; from the apartment he had deserted the fire burst out
in volleys of smoke--the wood crackled--the lead melted--with a crash
fell the severed gates--the dreadful entrance was opened to all the
multitude--the proud Capitol of the Caesars was already tottering to its
fall!--Now was the time!--he passed the flaming door--the smouldering
threshold;--he passed the outer gate unscathed--he was in the middle of
the crowd. "Plenty of pillage within," he said to the bystanders, in
the Roman patois, his face concealed by his load--"Suso, suso a gliu
traditore!" (Down, down with the traitor.) The mob rushed past him--he
went on--he gained the last stair descending into the open streets--he
was at the last gate--liberty and life were before him.

A soldier (one of his own) seized him. "Pass not--whither goest thou?"

"Beware, lest the Senator escape disguised!" cried a voice b