Portia, the wife of Brutus, felt a strange alarm at his recent conduct, and Calphurnia, the wife of Cæsar, implored him not to attend the session of the senate, reminding him of the soothsayer's warning--"Beware the ides of March."
Yet, Cæsar threw off all fear and suspicion and said:
_"What can be avoided, Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods? Yet Cæsar shall go forth, for these predictions Are to the world in general, not to Cæsar! Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once!"_
The hour of assassination has arrived, and Cæsar, seated in the chair of state, says:
_"What is now amiss That Cæsar and his senate must redress?"_
Senator Metellus, one of the chief conspirators, throws himself at the feet of Cæsar and implores pardon for his traitor brother.
_"Be not fond, To think that Cæsar bears such rebel blood, That will be thawed from the true quality, With that which meeteth fools; I mean, sweet words, Low, crooked courtesies, and base, spaniel fawning; Thy brother by decree is banished; If thou dost bend, and pray and fawn for him, I spurn thee like a cur out of my way. Know, Cæsar doth not wrong; nor without cause Will he be satisfied! But I am constant as the northern star, Of whose true fixed and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament!"_
The conspirators at this moment crowd around the doomed hero with pretended petitions--and, instanter, Casca stabs Cæsar in the neck, while several other murdering senators stab him through the body, and last Marcus Brutus plunges a dagger in the heart of his benefactor and father, when with glaring eyes and dying breath, the noble Cæsar exclaims:
Thus tumbled down at the base of Pompey's statue the greatest man the world has ever known!
Then the citizens of Rome--royal, rabble and conspirators, were filled with consternation, while Brutus tried to stem the rising flood of indignation.
Mark Antony was allowed to weep and speak over the pulseless clay of his official partner and friend.
Gazing on the cold, bloody form of the amazing Julius, he utters these pathetic phrases:
_"O mighty Cæsar! Dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well-- I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, Who else must be let blood, who else is rank; If I myself, there is no hour so fit As Cæsar's death-hour; nor no instrument Of half that worth, as those your swords, made rich With the most noble blood of all this world. I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard, Now, while your purpled hands do reek and smoke, Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousand years, I shall not find myself so apt to die; No place will please me so, no mean of death As here by Cæsar, and by you cut off, The choice and master spirit of this age!"_