confusion. He felt that he must for a moment forget the abyss that lay between them, and once more hear his father’s voice in loving tones, before their parting was an accomplished fact—forever.

The sense of an imperative duty was added to this sentiment. He felt that, hoping against hope, he must, even at the eleventh hour, try to weaken his father’s position.—The final details of the edict, he knew, were virtually in the Flamen’s hands. The Senate had long been accustomed to vote for whatever the Emperor wished, without any alterations, and Titus Claudius spoke in Caesar’s name. Domitian, amply satisfied of his representative’s inexorable temper, had not even taken the trouble to look through the sketch of the edict; the whole tenor of the law, in fact, lay in the high-priest’s hands.

How gladly would Quintus have poured out his heart to his father, and have told him without reserve all that he held to be true, fair, and good! How willingly would he have gone up to him, and have said: “Caesar’s government is groping in darkness; these Christians, whom you are condemning to destruction, are not criminals, but noble, virtuous, high-souled men—as noble, and virtuous, and high-souled as you yourself, father, who persecute them with such vindictive fury.”

But such boldness, alas! was out of the question; Quintus knew his father too well. He knew, that the rigid convictions of a mind like his were impervious to all that was new or strange, that even the logic of facts could only reach him by a long and circuitous route. His convictions had been the slow growth of years of unresting activity, and now they were immovable—a part of his very self. Thus Quintus had not the smallest doubt, that Titus Claudius, like a second Brutus, would not spare his own son, if duty and paternal feeling should come into conflict. So it was not his own peril only, which dictated moderation and silence, but regard for his father’s situation; and he never had felt a more tender reverence for him, than in this terrible hour. He could not speak as an adherent, nor even as a defender of the persecuted creed; only as a looker-on from the point of view of abstract justice. In speech and in silence alike he must betray no impatience, and seem only to have acquired his more exact knowledge of the Christian creed by accident. He could do no more than represent the Nazarenes as harmless folks, who neither deserved persecution nor were worth the trouble.

When he had taken his seat at the table by Lucilia, like a man who has time before him, he asked, throwing his head back and clasping his hands across his knee:

“Well, father ... and to-day is the last meeting?”

“As you say,” replied the high-priest.

“I must confess, that the matter has remained almost unknown to me.... I have been so absorbed in study, that I have hardly time to frequent the baths....”

“You are three-and-twenty, Quintus! When do you propose to take a proper interest in the great concerns of the Empire?”

“Indeed I generally follow them all with eager interest. It is only that just lately, at this moment....”

“This is the very moment, when all who are well-affected ought to cling together and show their zeal in action.”

“It is said, that the decree you propose is excessively severe,” said Quintus after a pause.

“It will answer its purpose.”

“And will be issued unmodified?”

“Why should good sound sense be modified?”

“Well ... opinions might differ.”

“They might, if the whole body of the Fathers[22] were men of the same stamp as that Cornelius Cinna ... then sound sense would indeed be in danger!”

“Cornelius Cinna is a man of keen judgment....”

“I quite understand, that you should talk the language of the uncle of your betrothed; but, as I know him, he is devoid of all capacity for statesmanship. Now in this matter of the Nazarenes he has amply betrayed his want of judgment—I will call it so, since I should be loth to suppose that his opposition arises from mere personal aversion.”

“What?” cried Quintus astonished. “Cornelius Cinna takes the part of the Nazarenes?”

“No, he does not take their part, but he does not regard them as dangerous. He laughs at them as visionaries and fools, who are no more to be held as reprobate, than the worshippers of Isis, or any other oriental sect. Mockery, contempt, are the only weapons worthy of a thinking man. When I pointed out to him, that the creed of the Nazarenes was undermining the religion of the state in a way which no other superstition had done, he dared to utter these audacious words: ‘If your Olympus cannot take care of itself, it may crumble into dust.’”

“The words, I admit, sound audacious enough,” replied Quintus, looking his father in the face; “but they cover a truth nevertheless, which, it seems to me, cannot fail to be self-evident to the priest of Jupiter.”

“You think so? I can only tell you, that I see nothing of the sort. The rabble crowd of superstitious cannot, to be sure, destroy almighty Jupiter himself, but it can upset the belief in his divine rule. We may be deprived of our discernment of the truth, if a lie becomes paramount.”

“Why then do you not resist the belief in Isis?”

“Because the religion of Isis has never dared to interfere in any way with that of the state. Besides, Isis is Juno; the name makes no difference. The symbol may vary—the essence remains untouched. You know, that even in my own house I have suffered Baucis....”

“Oh! merciful Isis!” cried the old woman in alarm, “am I too to be dragged under the dreadful law? Why, how often have I been to Barbillus? Four, or at most five times—or six or seven....”

“Hold your tongue, and leave us together,” cried the priest angrily. “She is getting silly,” he added, as Baucis vanished among the columns.

“She is growing deaf,” said Claudia in excuse. “Since our return from Baiae, I have had more to put up with every day.”

“You see I can be patient,” Titus Claudius went on, addressing his son. “But in this instance we must take up arms against the attacks of a dangerous foe. The Nazarenes are working underground, day and night, like moles. Their passion for converts amounts to insanity; they are systematically undermining the state and society. I am determined to put a stop to these attacks. If we do not put our veto on them in time, we shall have a common porter on the throne of the Caesars, and all that wear the purple will be put to the sword. Some slave, whose sole employment till now has been to drag dead beasts to be buried, or carry plague-stricken wretches through the streets, will be sacrificing in the Roman Capitol as high-priest to the Nazarene! I know it all full well; there are unmistakable signs in the air. This, my dear Quintus, by the help of the gods, is what we must oppose, and I shall avail myself of the aid of all the terrors of the law. This very day it will be proclaimed to all men, that leniency is at an end: henceforth the punishment for the crime of belonging to the Nazarenes is death by wild beasts in the Arena.”

The blood faded from the young man’s face; his heart stood still. He could not utter a word.

“What is the matter with you?” asked Titus Claudius startled. “You are pale ... trembling....”

“It is nothing,” Quintus said with an effort. “I was only horrified at the severity of the measure. What? The disgraceful death of the vilest criminals ... hideous butchery for the amusement of the