“My lord,” he replied with much dignity, “I have again come to crave a favor. I do not know whether you have heard—my son’s betrothed, stricken it would seem with sudden frenzy ...”
“I am informed of her crime,” Domitian interrupted. “I pity you sincerely, but I cannot and ought not to weaken the arm of the law.”
Titus Claudius turned pale.
“My lord,” he began, drawing a painful breath, “I have come only to prevent the law from degenerating into blind cruelty. The law condemns the Nazarenes, but not a crazed girl who, in her desperate grief, feigns belief in their errors. Inform yourself my lord ...”
“The law judges of facts,” Caesar threw in, “and not of feelings. None but the gods can read the soul. Besides, how can you prove what you assert?”
“I will attest it by the most solemn oaths. I know, for certain, that Cornelia loathes the superstitions of the Nazarenes. My lord, Titus Claudius sues only for her, not for—the other. That may guarantee the honesty of my purpose. If I could only stoop to lie—it would be for him, and not for the niece of Cornelius Cinna.”
His lips quivered as he spoke, and Clodianus looked with sympathy at the man, lately so erect and haughty, now bent, his head drooping, his spirit crushed. Even Parthenius, cold as he was, felt that momentary qualm, of which a father’s heart is conscious in seeing another parent suffer. Domitian alone was unmoved.
“I have no doubt, Claudius, that you speak the truth,” he said with affected benevolence, “but my personal convictions have no right to speak, when the safety of the State is involved. And that safety would be endangered, if I were to yield to my feelings and to your wish, which so far, it is true, I can only guess. Is the city-prefect to set the prisoner free, that she may proclaim in every street: I am a Christian, but Titus Claudius has procured my pardon!...? You see, circumstances are too strong for me.”
The high-priest looked at the ground in silence. Certainly, if Cornelia persisted in her madness, Caesar was right.
“Well, my lord,” he began in a low, hoarse voice, “I confess that I had overlooked that contingency. She must, then, remain in confinement till her excited brain has recovered its balance. But one thing yet I would crave of your grace: remove her at least from the dungeon, and let her be kept in ward elsewhere. She is but a tender creature—deal with her as with a sick child, not as with a criminal.”