Behind that high, pale forehead dreadful havoc had been made during the last few days. All the tortures of martyrdom, to which the barbarous law condemned the son, the father had suffered a thousand-fold. In the delirium of fever, again and again he was dragged out to the hideous scene, where his boy was to be butchered and mangled; the merciful cloud which, at first, had darkened his consciousness by degrees had lifted, only to add to his sufferings, and his fancy ran riot in sights and images which threatened his life. Octavia and Claudia had watched by his bed with infinite patience, forced to control their own grief and look on, stricken and inconsolable, while the unhappy man wrestled day and night with the demons that possessed his mind, and poured out furious curses on himself and his fate.
Now, after the storm, he had sunk into the calm of lethargy. His strength was visibly sinking, and the leeches turned away in helpless silence.
“He is dying!” was sorrowfully repeated in the remotest rooms of the house; for not the lowest of his slaves was so dull or so base, as not to mourn for so revered a master from the bottom of his heart. But he is sitting up, he is speaking—listen.
“No, no—you will forgive me,” he murmurs hardly audibly. “You will, Quintus? You will not curse me? I have always loved you—oh! loved you more than my life! That dreadful decree! Woe, woe is me! he turns away! A murderer, he calls me a murderer!” And he sank back on his pillows, gasping for breath; his hands clutched convulsively at the quilt.
“Quintus,” he began again, softly, coaxingly—like a child. “Say one kind word to me. Oh! Quintus, can you for a moment imagine, that I am your enemy! This hand has so often stroked your cheek, smoothed your hair, your beautiful, long, waving hair! Ah! the beasts—the horrible wild beasts! Caesar, this is a hideous crime; mercy, pardon! Let me go down to them, let me die, but spare his youth! in vain, in vain—they have rushed upon him, they have seized him—ye gods! ye gods! have pity on me!”
A hoarse, dull scream, and then total silence.
“Father, Father, do you not know me?” said a trembling voice. “It is I, your son—I myself; not a delusion, not a dream.—And here is Cornelia—and here is Caius Aurelius, who has snatched us from the jaws of death.”
Titus Claudius started up at the sound of this voice. He fixed his glassy gaze on the figure of the young man, who was kneeling by his side and covering his wasted hands with tears and kisses. Then, suddenly a light passed into his face, a shiver thrilled through his enfeebled frame, and with a joyful cry of “Quintus! my son!” he fell back senseless. There he lay, motionless as the dead. His face grew paler and paler, and his arms hung helplessly by the side of the couch. The by-standers were paralyzed with dismay; only Claudia had enough presence of mind to fly out of the room and call for assistance. In two minutes she brought back old Palaemon,[177] a freedman of the household, who was versed in all the mysteries of Greek and Roman medicine. He came up to the couch with a look of the deepest grief, and laid his hand on the unconscious man’s forehead, feeling at the same time his scarcely fluttering pulse. Claudia, always brave and calm, told him of what had happened.
“Give him quiet,” said Palaemon, waving them all back with his hand. ”This moment is decisive.”
The family left the room; Octavia herself in an almost fainting state. Leaning on Aurelius, she went to her own apartments. Claudia only, with Baucis, remained with the leech to watch the sick man.