mob...? Father, impossible!”

“It is necessary,” replied the Flamen.

“I do not understand you. Is it necessary to punish with death a crime—which to me seems an error indeed, but a pardonable, a noble, a sublime error...? Father, you do not know these persecuted people; you have never studied their doctrine; you cannot imagine how completely you are entangled in delusions about them. The Nazarenes are not rebels; they are quiet, duteous folk, who ask but one thing: to be allowed to worship their God. Their Master himself taught them: ‘To render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.’”

“Only a partisan of the sect could have poured such lies into your ear....”

“I was, by accident, witness to a discussion,” Quintus stammered out. “And I will pledge my life and honor as to the truth of what I have said!”

“The truth!” laughed his father. “For the truth of your own view of the matter at most. By the gods, but I really do not understand how my son, of all men, should have come to be a defender of this accursed sect! However, be it so! I leave you the free exercise of your judgment; the course of events will soon rectify it. Meanwhile, you will perhaps allow me to carry out the line of action, which I have cautiously weighed with solemn appeals to my conscience.”

“Then you want to conjure the age of Nero from the grave?”

“Yes, my son. The age of Nero was not so bad, though the unbridled Caesar himself committed many crimes. His fight against the Nazarenes wipes out all scores.”

“Then you can praise him for having wrapped Nazarenes in tow and rosin, and set fire to it?”

“Those are mere foolish tales, invented by contemptible writers, who were at a loss for color in their pictures.”

“What? Things that all the world knows, a fable!”

“As you say.”

The blood mounted to the young man’s brow.

“Then perhaps you will say it is a fable, that Domitian—a second Nero—has killed his mistress by a kick?”

“Who says so?” cried Titus Claudius starting up.

“All Rome. You only, Father, seem to be ignorant of what has filled thousands with horror.”

“You heard it from Cinna.”

Quintus shrugged his shoulders.

“Be easy,” the priest went on; “I have it from Parthenius, that Julia died of her long illness.”

“Parthenius!” laughed Quintus scornfully.

“I am not justified in doubting his assertion, particularly in this instance, when it is in contradiction to such an impossible calumny. I myself have been intimate with Caesar long enough to know his calm nature, his equanimity, and self-command.”

“Yes, when he speaks to you; but every one knows that he wears a mask in your presence. You are, in fact, the only man in Rome, who can command his respect.”

“I should be a fool indeed to believe such a thing. I know full well, that hatred and calumny never sleep. The higher their prey, the more virulent is their attack. Beware, my son, of propagating such disgraceful reports; do not break the law which threatens the detractors of the sovereign with heavy punishment.”

“Then, to be a worthy citizen, I must choke the truth?”

“Not the truth—only lies. The weeds have been allowed to grow too long, and now we must mow down the crop, which threatens to choke the good seed! Here comes the boy to tell us the time. In an hour the Senate meets. Let us enjoy the interval without vexing each other.”

“Then you persist in extreme measures? Every one who confesses the Nazarene must die?”

“Without reprieve, be he slave or senator.”

Quintus was fighting an agonizing battle; his lips trembled, already parted to cry in despair to the inexorable judge: “Father, you are condemning your son to death...!” but he controlled himself in time. He rose.

“Farewell,” he said in a low voice, and he held out both hands to his father. “I am very busy,” he added in a steady voice. “Important business—you need not laugh, Lucilia—requires my return. Father, when it is your turn to speak in the Senate, remember your son—perhaps the thought may soften your heart; the Christians, too, whom you doom to death, are fathers ... sons....”

He rushed away. He was on the verge of tears, but he set his teeth and clenched his fist.

“Oh! misery, misery!” he said to himself. “Father! Father! who could have foreseen this severance when I, as a boy, sat at your feet? Nay, quite lately, when you spoke to me so gravely!—How happy, how gay they all were; and he, so calm in the sense of doing his duty! If he only knew—it would kill him!”

He hurried through the atrium, almost beside himself; Blepyrus, to whom he had only yesterday granted his pardon, was waiting there with others of his clients and slaves.

His family looked after him in silence. Octavia was the first to speak.

“It is strange,” she said thoughtfully, “by all the gods, strange! What can have come over him? He always held the populace in such contempt.”

“It is impossible to count upon him,” said Lucilia. “But this time, it seems to me, he is carrying his whim too far.”

“You are wrong,” said her father sternly. “It was no whim that spoke in that mood of excitement, it was genuine enthusiasm. I have observed in him for some time, that this frame of mind has been growing to a height. It is the sacred fire of pity, which burns within him, a noble sentiment which discerns the man even in the criminal. He cannot comprehend, that the State must ignore all such sentiment, if the commonwealth is not to suffer. His impulse is a foolish one, but I love him for it; and many a Roman maiden who, with thumbs turned down,[23] helps in condemning the stricken gladiator to the death-blow, might envy him his nobler soul!”

The high-priest rose and walked two or three times up and down, past the fountain where the sparkling water now gleamed in the rising sun.

“It is time to go,” he said, standing still in front of his wife. “What a pity! It is a glorious morning, and I feel as if I had never so thoroughly enjoyed the rest and peacefulness of this peristyle. Perhaps it is only by contrast with the storms outside, that toss the vessel of state.... The sitting will be a long one, if only on Cinna’s account, who never will refrain from words, even when the struggle is a hopeless one. I shall be thankful if it is all over by supper-time. And—did I tell you?—Sextus Furius is to be our guest.”

Claudia colored.

“He is welcome,” Octavia said.

“Oh! that odious man with a long-pointed nose!” cried Lucilia. “It is horrible always to have none but such weak-kneed old men at table with us.”

Titus Claudius was accustomed to allow considerable license to his adopted daughter’s audacity, but such broadly-expressed contempt was beyond all permissible measure.

“Lucilia!” he exclaimed almost angrily. “You sometimes allow yourself jests, which seem to me positively silly. Remember—do you hear me?—many follies, which we forgive in a child, sound shocking when uttered by the lips of a young woman. How dare you make any guests of mine the subject of your mockery? Sextus Furius is an honorable man, wise, experienced, and worthy of all respect. If his outward man is not altogether that of the fine gentlemen, who swarm and buzz from morning till night round the dressing-chairs and litters